nova

“Is that what you’re going to wear?”

You almost don’t register that she’s speaking to you. Not until you turn and see Gracie looking directly at you, arms folded, expression unreadable in that very particular producer-y way. You blink once, then again.

“No,” you deadpan. “I’m clearly wearing it five minutes before showtime to waste everyone’s time.”

Her mouth tugs upward slightly, amused. “It’s a very low-cut shirt.”

Her eyes dart downward for a second, like she can’t help it.

You let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “It’s a date, Gracie. I’m supposed to look like I’m somewhat trying to impress the person.”

You say it like it’s obvious. Like the two of you haven’t been doing this together for six years. Like she didn’t watch you change outfits in a panic this morning.

She leans her hip against the nearby folding table. “It wouldn’t be because of a certain guest—”

“Absolutely not,” you cut her off, too quickly. Too firmly. You refuse to even let the thought form. You’re a professional, and it’s insulting she’d even suggest otherwise. “First of all! I’ve worn worse things than this on dates, okay? Remember the date with Raye? I wore that red skirt?”

Her nod is slow. “Hm. How could I forget? The Sun wrote about it. Stephen Moyes basically called you a slut.”

You nod back, the memory crawling back in crystal-clear clarity. “God. That was a good skirt.”

Before either of you can spiral down that rabbit hole again, the door opens and in walks Drew Starkey and his team. He’s not wearing a suit, thank God — just a fitted black tee, his usual gold chain, baseball cap tugged low over his brow. It should’ve helped. It doesn’t.

Because he still looks like he could ruin your entire career with one smile.

Unfortunately, that smile is already forming.

You curse the squeak of your plastic chair as you shift your legs, crossing one over the other, trying not to touch the sticky floor with your open-toe heels. The AC hums overhead, more noise than relief, and the little chicken shop you and Gracie scouted two weeks ago suddenly feels too cramped, too hot, too real. The overhead lighting is merciless, the tiles faded and cracked, and there’s nowhere to hide if your face decides to give you away.

Drew spots you and instantly—instantly—that grin kicks in, slow and crooked. Dangerous.

He’s pulled away before he can reach you, whisked by hair and makeup for a last-minute touch-up. The lights are harsh. Everything looks worse on camera. But he looks happy to be here, and that somehow makes it harder to breathe.

You grab the stack of pre-prepped questions sitting next to you, hand them off to your assistant, and pretend to revise them like your life depends on it. As if memorizing bullet points will help you survive the next thirty minutes.

He finally approaches, steps around the mic setup, and slides into the seat across from you like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like he belongs there.

“Hello,” you say, lifting your chin. “Look who finally showed up.”

“Look at you,” he says, settling in, eyes dragging down and back up. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the mic in my face.”

You hand off your notes to the assistant and exhale slowly, lips curved. “Ah, yes. This is Cinderella after midnight. The magic’s gone now without the sparkling dresses, right?”

His head tilts. His gaze lowers—lingers. “I don’t think it was the dresses that did it for me.”

The words settle between you like heat. Your heart flinches in your chest, but you don’t let it show. You’ve trained for this.

“Good,” you manage, voice smooth. “Because I won’t fit in them anymore. Not after the two bribe baskets you sent me.”

That earns a laugh from him, low and genuine. “You liked the biscuits. Admit it.”

“They were manipulative I’m-sorry-I’m-standing-you-up-baskets,” you fire back. “That’s emotional warfare.”

He smirks, dragging a finger along the condensation dripping down his sweet tea bottle. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You lift your brows, trying to maintain composure. He’s too relaxed. Too grounded. Like the crew and the lights and the stakes of this moment aren’t even real to him.

His knee bumps yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I am sorry,” he says, and it’s not the first time. You’ve heard it over the phone, over text, wrapped in bribe baskets and late-night apologies. His voice is quieter now, lower, almost careful. “Really, really fucking sorry.”

You glance at him, then back at your drink, letting the silence hang for a second.

“Stop,” you say gently. “It’s okay. Shit happens. I know.”

His brows lift, just slightly.

He studies you like he’s not sure you mean it. Like he wants to dig through the words and make sure they’re not just a polite deflection.

You meet his eyes and give the smallest shrug. “You didn’t flake because you wanted to. You’ve been trying. I see that.”

Something in his shoulders softens. You can feel it.

“Still,” he murmurs, voice a little rough, “I don’t like letting you down.”

You tilt your head, resting your elbow on the table. “Then don’t do it again.”

He smiles, boyish and warm and your heart might be exploding in your chest. “Not planning on it.”

“So,” you say, elbow resting on the laminate surface, “this is where you grew up.”

“This is it,” he says with a little shrug. “Where I learned to ride a bike. Failed geometry. Kissed a girl behind a Taco Bell.”

You blink. “That’s romantic.”

“It was sweaty,” he grins. “But yeah.”

You glance around the space. The yellowed walls, the battered menu board, the cracked vinyl seats. It’s tragically charming in a way you couldn’t fake if you tried. The kind of place frozen in time.

“It’s weird,” you murmur. “You’re Drew Starkey, and you’re from here.”

He gives you a quieter smile this time, more grounded. “Nah. I’m still just Joseph Andrew. This place keeps me real.”

You arch a brow. “You mean it humbles you.”

“Exactly. That, and the fact that I’ve seen three of my high school teachers today. One of them winked at me. Not joking.”

You laugh, loud and involuntary, and he leans forward again, resting his chin in one hand, elbow on the table, just… watching you.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice lower now. Almost too sincere.

“At what?”

“Making me feel like this isn’t going to be filmed.”

You glance at the crew out of the corner of your eye, then back at him. “That’s because it’s not supposed to feel like an interview. It’s a date.”

Something shifts in his expression. Something honest flickers through.

“How’d you come up with this concept?” he asks, voice low and genuine, and just like that, he pivots. He always does this; asks you things like you’re the one worth watching.

You weren’t expecting the question, so you blink. Most people don’t ask. Most people just flirt or perform. But he listens like he actually wants the answer.

“I was twenty,” you say slowly. “Just graduated. All my friends had job offers lined up. I had a few too, but nothing that really stuck. I wanted to create something… fun. Something that felt like us sitting around a table talking nonsense, but with cameras. My initial idea was a podcast but that wasn’t very me and now with the explosion of podcasts and how it’s viewed, I’m glad I didn’t do it.”

He’s already nodding, listening like it’s a story he’s heard before and still wants to hear again.

He’s leaning forward now, like every word matters.

“I went on this awful first date, and that night my friends and I stayed up for hours talking about it. Debriefing. Laughing. Then we started asking who we would want to go on a date with if we could pick anyone. And I just thought, what if I could? My friends joked that I was better off creating a show about dating than going on another date.”

“So you did.”

“So I did,” you smile. “First guest was a friend of a friend. It snowballed from there.”

Drew leans back in his chair a little, something lazy and pleased settling over him. “I should send that bad date a thank you cheque. He’s the reason we met.”

You open your mouth, ready to say something. A joke, maybe but it catches. You hesitate instead.

He notices. His brows lift slightly, and that half-smile appears again, crooked and knowing. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. I just…”

He waits.

“It’s silly,” you say, “but I believe you meet who you’re meant to meet. Like, even if that date hadn’t been a disaster, if it had gone perfectly, if I was supposed to meet you eventually, I would have. Maybe not like this, sitting across from each other in a chicken shop in Hickory, but somehow.”

That gets him. His smile fades into something quieter. He watches you for a moment too long. Doesn’t blink. His fingers curl slightly where they rest on the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself, too.

“Okay, guys. We’re ready to film. Are we good?”

Henry’s voice cuts through the ambient clatter of the shop, a little louder than it needs to be. He stands behind one of the cameras, headset slightly askew, fingers hovering over the switchboard like a man ready to detonate something.

You glance toward him and nod, flashing two quick thumbs up. “We’re good.”

And when you turn back, Drew is still watching you.

And not in the passive, polite, camera-aware kind of way. He’s watching you like you’re a secret he’s dying to figure out. His eyes are locked on yours and the heat of it steals the air from your lungs. You look away before you start smiling like a teenager at prom.

Instead, you focus on the food in front of you. Something safe. Something greasy and familiar and not Drew Star key’s jawline.

You gesture toward the tray between you. “Do you actually like this stuff, or were you just trying to impress me with your Southern charm?”

He tears into a fry like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Oh no, I grew up on this,” he says around a grin. “This is comfort food.”

You reach for a chicken strip and take a slow, exaggerated bite, eyes narrowing as you chew. “I rate it… six out of ten.”

He gasps, hand pressed to his chest. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

There’s a beat.

You sip your drink, the straw catching awkwardly at first, and his eyes follow the movement. He watches your mouth with a look that’s far too thoughtful for something so innocent. It makes your skin prickle. You can feel him restraining himself—like whatever just passed through his mind definitely isn’t fit for YouTube.

You flash a grin to shake it off, your tone lifting. “So. What do you look for in a girl?”

He picks up a napkin and wipes his fingers slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself a second. “Someone who can give me shit. Keep me in check. Doesn’t care that I’m on Netflix.”

He glances up then, lips curled. “She’s gotta be smart. Funny. A little chaotic.”

You tilt your head. “Has excellent taste in chicken shops?”

“That too,” he nods, biting back a smile.

You lean in slightly. “And looks?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes don’t move from yours. “I mean… look at you.”

You blink. Your breath catches for half a second before you cover it with a laugh. “You’re laying it on thick, Starkey.”

“I’m trying to romance my date.” His smile turns boyish. “Is it not a date?”

You try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, but it wins. “No, it is a date.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

His voice is softer now—smokier. The kind of tone that vibrates a little in your chest. You don’t look over at the crew, but you know Gracie is behind the monitor silently losing her mind.

Drew leans in a little more, and suddenly there’s less air between you. You can smell the faintest trace of his cologne—clean, subtle, and a little dizzying. His arm rests on the table now, elbow bent, hand relaxed like he’s just waiting.

“This could go badly, you know,” he murmurs.

“How so?”

“We could end up liking each other.”

You pause, heart skipping—but you don’t let it show. You’re still playing your part. You’re still on camera. So you arch a brow instead, tilt your head with practiced ease.

“That is the point of a date.”

He laughs again, head thrown back slightly, and the sound is so rich, so real, you want to fold it into your hands and keep it. You’re not even sure you care that the camera is rolling anymore. You just want to hear it again.

“Okay, fine,” he says, sitting back an inch but his gaze doesn’t stray. “If this is a date, I can ask you questions too, right?”

The journalist in you wants to say no. That’s not how this works. You ask. He answers. You steer. He follows. But he’s not wrong. And this is a date. Sort of.

“Mm. Go on.”

He smiles. “Tell me your type.”

You make a show of pretending to think, fingers dancing along the edge of your cup.

“Hmm… Dirty blonde. Funny. A little cocky. Southern. Tall. Broad shoulders. Good hands. Blue eyes.”

His smile spreads slow and knowing, like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon. “You just described me.”

You hum, eyes flicking over him. “Did I?”

He leans forward again, closer than before. His voice drops just enough for only you to hear.

“What about the good hands part?”

You pause, savoring the tension. Then:

“Still under review.”

He breaks. Laughs, head ducking low, hand covering his mouth. When he looks up again, his eyes are brighter. Softer. Lit from somewhere deeper.

“Harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

“So,” you say, your voice dipping just slightly, intimate in the space between you, “you’ve had a couple of movies with love interests.”

“Mhm.” He hums it, already smiling like you said something you didn’t mean to say out loud. That kind of smile that sits somewhere behind his teeth and flickers in his eyes. You almost ask what he’s thinking, why he’s already grinning, but you don’t. You cling to the structure, the scaffolding of the interview like it’s keeping you upright.

“You did one with Marie Leighton, Ella Ross, Victoria Clarke…” You pause, watching the way he leans in without realizing it. “I have to ask though. Who’s the best kisser?”

He throws his head back with a groan that turns into a laugh, deep and full, the kind that pulls his whole chest forward. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. You know I’m friends with all those girls, right?”

You press your hand against your chest, mock-innocent. “Can’t a girl get to know her date?”

He goes quiet then. His smile softens, eyes shifting slightly. There’s something deeper there now. Something that tightens the air between you. His gaze finds yours and lingers. Long enough to catch in your throat.

“Kissing scenes,” he says slowly, “aren’t nearly as romantic as they look. You’ve gotta do it fifty times from ten different angles. And by the end of the night, you’re just sick of the smell of Baccarat Rouge or YSL Libre most girls wear.”

“Mm,” you say, sipping your drink with a little shrug. “I wear Celine Parade.” Just incase you want to make out some time.

It slips out too fast. Too easy.

His eyes glint. His smile goes crooked. “That is good to know.”

Your stomach flips. You clear your throat and point a finger across the table. “Okay. Answer the question. You’re not off the hook.”

He groans again, dramatic now, but there’s something quieter behind it too. He pauses, scratches his jaw with his thumb. “Victoria,” he says eventually. “Mostly because we didn’t have that many kissing scenes. So my lips weren’t completely destroyed by the end of the day.”

You snort. “You’re actually teaching me things. I didn’t know you could get sick of kissing.”

You pop a fry into your mouth. Just then, his eyes drop. Subtle, deliberate to your lips. Only for a second. But enough.

His voice is lower now, near a whisper. “Depends on the person.”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the way your smile wants to split you in half. You shift slightly in your chair, suddenly too aware of the heat in the room. The press of your thigh against the edge of the table. The way he keeps looking at you like he’s thinking about things he can’t say on camera.

“I read somewhere,” you begin, grasping for levity, “that Southern guys have great manners.”

He nods, lips quirking. “Mm. That’s true. If you forget to hold a door open in this town or skip saying ‘Thank you, ma’am’ to a cashier? Someone’s calling your parents. You’re getting a full lecture by dinnertime.”

“Is that how you want to raise your kids?”

His answer comes fast, like he’s already considered it. “Definitely. I want a couple things from them: Respect the people around you. Live and let live. Be a gentleman. Have good manners. And know how to work a grill.”

You laugh, caught off guard. “Work a grill?”

“That’s probably the most important one, actually.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “So do you have a grill at your place? Big backyard? Fairy lights strung up in the trees?”

“Come over and find out.”

You blink. “Are you asking me out on a second date?”

“Only if this date is going as well as I think it is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Your answer to the next question.”

He narrows his eyes, intrigued. “Hit me.”

You pause, let the silence stretch. Let him lean in a little closer, just enough to notice.

“Am I the prettiest girl you’ve ever been on a date with?”

There’s not a single beat of hesitation.

“Absolutely.”

He doesn’t say it to charm you. He says it like a fact. Like nothing could be more right.

You'll cut this.

Of course you will.

The way he looks at you when you’re not speaking. The tension under every glance. The breath that gets caught in your throat when his hand brushes the table near yours. The way he leans in just slightly like he wants to close the space between you with something neither of you can take back. It's too much. Too dramatic for a series meant to feel so light.

But some things will stay.

The laughter.

The softness behind his voice.

The look he gives you right before the cameras stop rolling. Like he’s about to say something real. Like he might say it off-camera.

Like this isn’t the end. Like he hopes it’s not even close.

THE END (i think)

He’d sent the text the night before. Right around the time you were bent over the hotel bathroom sink, trying not to cry between waves of nausea. A lovely memory, really.

You hadn’t answered until now.

The hospital room was still and dim, lit only by the faint blue-gray light of early morning bleeding through the window blinds. Everyone was asleep. Your assistant and Gracie curled on the too-small couch with a jacket thrown over her shoulders. Yves and Tommy were slumped in those plastic chairs, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. It was just shy of 6 AM. Oscar day. And instead of prepping at your overpriced suite ten minutes from the venue, you were here: in a paper gown, on a borrowed pillow, smelling faintly of antiseptic.

You sent your reply quietly, thumb hovering for a beat before tapping send.

The call came almost instantly.

You stared at the screen vibrating in your hand, frozen for a second, then scrambled to slide out of the bed, careful not to wake anyone. The sheets crinkled beneath you and the IV tugged slightly at your arm. You slipped into the hallway, your bare feet quiet against the linoleum.

The corridor was still. Eerily calm, like the entire building was holding its breath. You sank into one of the hard waiting chairs, pulled your knees up, and answered.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice hoarse and sleep-heavy.

There was a quiet rustle on the other end. The faint murmur of people in the background, the sound of a door clicking shut. Then it was quieter, more contained.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and a little rushed, like he’d moved to take the call the second he saw your message. “You’re in the hospital? Are you sick? Hurt?”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see it. “No, no. Just food poisoning. I had it bad last night.”

There was a pause, “That sounds serious.”

You turned your head, watching the empty hallway stretch out in front of you. “It’s not, really. Once I threw up a couple of times, I already felt better.”

“Still. Don’t downplay it,” he said, firmer this time. Not angry, but resolute. “If they’re keeping you overnight, it’s serious.”

“It’s just standard procedure,” you murmured.

“No,” he said. “Standard procedure is discharging someone once they’re fine. Keeping you means they thought something could still happen.”

You sat up a little straighter. His voice had shifted. There was tension there now, a low thread of frustration tucked behind the concern.

“Drew,” you said gently. “I had a stomach bug. That’s all. I’m on fluids. I’ll head back to the hotel in a few hours, sleep it off, and I’ll be back to full glam by 6.”

He went quiet. A breath. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry. I'm just…”

He trailed off and you filled in the silence. “Tired?”

He let out a quiet exhale, like your voice hit a nerve. “Yeah. Everything’s blurring a little. These events just start to stack on top of each other after a while.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see. “You’ve had a hell of a press tour. I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

“I love it,” he said quickly, like instinct. “It’s great, I—”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you cut in, soft but certain. “It’s when we pretend we’re not that we miss the signs. Like airport sushi smelling off. And then boom: hospital bed, no lashes, no coffee, just an IV drip and the lingering shame of cheap wasabi.”

He laughed, low and warm in your ear. And even through the hollow ache in your gut, it made you smile.

“I was just about to send you breakfast, too,” he says. “Real Southern stuff. Biscuits, eggs, the works.”

“That would’ve been cruel,” you mutter. “I can barely look at a saltine right now.”

He hums. “Next time I’ll text before I try to be thoughtful.”

“Next time I’ll accept,” you say. “Even if it kills me.”

There's a small pause.

“You shouldn’t joke about dying,” he murmurs.

“Okay, morbid. We’re not there yet.”

“Where’s there?”

You smile at the ceiling. “Where we say scary things without flirting after.”

He laughs, and the sound warms something in your chest. “Right. Got it. This is still flirting.”

“Very much so.”

Another quiet pause. His voice dips again.

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

“Just sleep.”

“Someone to hold your hair back?”

You let out a weak laugh. “I’ve already thrown up all the sins of my past life, I’m good.”

He chuckles. “Alright. But I’m checking in on you later.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay. But only if you send that biscuit basket anyway.”

“I knew it.”

“Don’t let me die without carbs.”

He sighs, but it sounds like a smile. “See you on the carpet?”

“See you on the carpet.”

You hang up, cheeks warm, nausea slightly forgotten. Even in a hospital gown, with smudged mascara and the sound of squeaky floors, somehow, talking to him still feels like the best part of your morning.

What's even more miraculous? You actually make it to that carpet.

You’re in the middle of a laugh with one of the leads from Drew’s nominated film when you feel it again; that familiar pause in the universe, like time folding in on itself.

The actor catches it too. His eyes flick upward and he’s smiling behind you before something has even had the chance to happen. “Oh, here we go,” he says under his breath, grinning as Drew Starkey walks straight toward the both of you. Confident. Sharp. And far too comfortable for someone who isn’t technically scheduled for your slot.

Drew barely glances at the camera, arm slung around his your shoulder like it belongs there, and he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Are you flirting with my date?” he asks his costar.

You don’t even get a word out before the other actor scoffs. “Mate, I was talking about cinematography.”

Drew’s smile curves slow. “That’s how it starts.”

You shake your head, amused, playing along like it’s nothing. “Date? That’s news to me.”

Drew turns to you with a tilt of his head. “Is it?”

You lift your brow, lips quirking. “You’ve stood me up twice now.”

That makes him pause. His smile doesn’t drop entirely, but something shifts in his expression—like a record skipping. Like there’s a part of him that hates that it’s true.

He looks at you, really looks, and you feel it. That weight behind the joke. That something-you-can’t-say pressure sitting right there beneath his charm.

“I know,” he says quietly. “You know I’m trying to make it work.”

And you do. You really do. You know there are teams, schedules, PR demands and tiny, invisible contracts governing everything. But still.

You keep your tone light. “I’m just teasing. I’m sure our date will happen very soon.”

His eyes don’t leave yours for a long beat. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It will.”

There’s a flicker in his jaw, something unspoken that nearly makes your stomach twist.

You swat lightly at Drew’s chest, trying not to smile so hard your cheekbones hurt. “Go win something. You’re interrupting.”

“Can’t help myself,” he says. “You look…” He stops, eyes drifting down your figure with a not-so-subtle pause before he clears his throat. “Incredible.”

You open your mouth to tease him, but his costar beats you to it.

“Someone’s feeling rather flirty,” they grin, smacking Drew’s shoulder. Drew scoffs, biting back a laugh as he shifts his weight.

“Don’t think no one sees you foaming at the mouth, man,” he says, nodding toward them. “I’ve just got the balls to say it.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks still warm. “Go. You’re making me look unprofessional.”

But Drew doesn’t move just yet. Instead, he leans in slightly, his tone dropping, just loud enough for you to hear and you instinctively bring your mic down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not looking at your face right away, like asking it out loud might make it too obvious. “You… good now?”

You meet his eyes then. That softness is back. That look he gives you like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway. It’s subtle. No one else would even register the shift. But you feel it. Right there in your chest.

You nod, a small, grateful smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah. I’m good.”

His eyes flicker across your face once more, checking. Quietly satisfied, he nods back, like now he can leave.

“Be nice to her,” he tells his friend.

“I was being nice,” the guy mutters, still amused.

“She’s got standards,” Drew calls over his shoulder. “Don’t mess it up.”

You don’t turn to watch Drew leave. You don’t need to.

You can feel him still looking.

When you focus back on your interviewee, the man is staring at you with that grin again. That knowing grin.

“You good?” he asks, teasing.

“I’m great,” you say quickly. “Back to you. Tell me about the final scene. You broke me.”

And just like that, you’re back on track.

But your heart’s still beating a little too fast.

The Met carpet is chaos disguised as glamour. The event handlers are always a bit too rough when moving people up the stairs, it's always loud and fast-paced and you have to be ready for anything at any given moment. Somewhere between the flashbulbs and the screaming fans, there’s you; balancing charm, wit, and five-inch heels that may or may not be slowly ending your life. But none of that matters right now. Not when he steps into frame.

Drew Starkey. In black-on-black tailoring that hugs his shoulders like it was sewn onto him in the dark. His hair’s a little undone, his walk a little lazy, and the second he sees you, it happens again.

He stares. And not in a regular way. He really stares. Watches you, up and down with a grin on his face that feels like it says; We meet again?

You smile, the camera catching just enough teeth to make it look effortless. “Well, well. Look who managed to clean up again.”

He grins, slower this time. His eyes trace over you with that infuriating kind of calm, like he’s studying something meant only for him. “Do you always look like this, or is it just when I’m around?”

You tilt your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would,” he says, without missing a beat.

You pretend not to hear that. Your expression doesn’t shift, but something in your stomach does. You gesture to the mark on the carpet. “Step into the light for me.”

He does. Effortlessly. Like he was born in it. But his gaze doesn’t waver. He stays looking at you like he forgot there are cameras, producers, and an entire internet waiting for content. Like it’s just the two of you.

You try to steady yourself, even as you ask, “Tell me a little about what you’re wearing tonight?”

“I’m wearing...” he begins, voice low. His eyes are still locked on yours for a second longer before they drop slowly, deliberately, sweeping down the line of your body like gravity has a hold on him.

You’re live. You know you’re live. You’re aware of every second that passes. Every camera lens pointed toward you. Every production assistant whispering behind their clipboards. Every viewer watching from home.

You’re just not sure he knows.

You’re just not sure he knows. Or worse, he knows exactly what he’s doing. And doesn’t care.

“Eyes up,” you say, forcing a smile to veil the heat creeping into your skin. “Focus.”

“I am focused.” His voice doesn’t waver. He’s still looking at you.

“On the camera,” you clarify, raising a brow.

He smiles, that slow, lazy grin that feels dangerous when paired with the look in his eyes. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

"I’ll be whatever you want me to be."

You raise a brow, surprised he said it out loud, and he just shrugs a little, amused with himself like he’s already gotten away with something.

“Did you just come out of the womb a flirt?” you ask, partly to keep the banter going and partly to collect yourself, to put some distance between the heat of his gaze and your wildly unprofessional response to it.

He shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “This is just for you.”

There’s a beat. A crackle of electricity just under the surface.

You inhale through your nose and shift your weight, grounding yourself again. The laugh that bubbles up gets caught in your throat. You tilt the mic a little closer to your chest, the movement more of a distraction than anything else.

“Are you sure?” you ask now, but it’s not for the audience, not even for the content. This is just for you. A quiet attempt to untangle the threads. To figure out if this whole flirty routine is calculated. Something his publicist cooked up after realizing you two had good on-camera chemistry. Or if this is real. Him, standing there, saying things he doesn’t have to say, looking at you like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else.

You’ve worked this job long enough to know how much of Hollywood is staged. Glamorous, polished, controlled. What you think is real is often the exact opposite. Carefully curated, rehearsed, and micromanaged for maximum effect.

He watches you. There’s a flicker in his expression, something unspoken but not subtle.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks with a grin, light but not dismissive. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, but wants to hear you say it anyway.

You purse your lips to stop from smiling and shake your head, half-laughing now, flustered in spite of yourself. “We’re done talking about this. We’re talking about this suit now, which is absolutely gorgeous. You look great in blue.”

But he cuts in, voice still smooth. “Hold on, I—”

You shake your head, waving him off, the corners of your mouth betraying you again. “Nope. I have bullet points to get through.”

He leans in slightly, “Wouldn’t want to fuck up the bullet points,” he murmurs, chuckling under his breath.

You give him a sharp look despite the smile on your face. “Language.”

“Sorry,” he says, eyes glinting. Then, turning briefly to the camera, he repeats the apology, a bit more performative this time, but still charming. “Sorry.”

Your media training kicks in, smooth as silk before he can veer you off track again. You lift your chin. “Who are you wearing?”

“Loewe dressed me tonight,” he answers, the rhythm of his voice a little easier now. “Wanted me to look like I belong here.”

You hum, letting your eyes drop to the lapels, the tailoring, the navy fabric that somehow makes his shoulders look broader than ever. “Well. Tell Jonathan he succeeded. You look expensive.”

He leans a fraction closer, just enough to narrow the space between you. His voice dips. “You’d be the expert.”

You tap your mic once. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says. His eyes are on you again. They haven’t really left, but now they’re softer. Sincere.

And maybe you imagined it, but his fingers twitch slightly where his hand rests against his thigh, like they’re aching to reach out. He doesn’t. Not quite.

You try to keep your composure, to stay in the frame of the job, but it’s hard. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing something he wasn’t prepared for.

His gaze drops again, but not far. Not greedy. Just enough to catch the sheen of your lip gloss when the light hits it. It lingers there, caught in the space between curiosity and something else entirely.

You don’t mention it.

“Alright,” you say, angling the mic ever so slightly toward him, voice steady despite the heat rising to your face. “First thing you’re doing once you get inside?”

“Find the exhibit,” he says, to your surprise. “There’s a suit I want to see.”

You raise your brows, fighting the tug of a smile. “I think you forgot how an interview works, Starkey. I ask, you answer.”

He tilts his head slightly, one brow lifting, all amused arrogance. “Is that the rule?”

“That’s the rule.”

There’s a second of silence between you. The kind that stretches without feeling awkward. Then he says it, soft and low, the edges of the words just a little rough like velvet against skin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You blink. The air shifts. Somewhere behind the camera, Gracie let out a quiet breath that sounds suspiciously like oh, fuck me.

Your heart stutters. Just once. You recover quickly. “You’re trouble.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“So,” you continue, trying to stay professional. “What’s your Met hot take?”

He thinks for a second. “Too many people pretending they like caviar.”

You laugh—loud and unfiltered. “That’s the one.”

Your camera guy gives you a subtle throat-cutting motion. You hold up a single finger like one more minute. Drew notices and barely reacts. He just keeps watching you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“I’ll see you in there?” he asks.

“Only if you’re not causing too much trouble.”

He starts walking backward again with both hands held up like okay okay. “I’ll behave.”

You laugh under your breath. “Doubtful.”

He’s halfway gone when you call after him, just loud enough for the mic to still catch it. “Hey, Starkey!”

He stops, turns. That crooked smile is back in an instant. “Yeah?”

“You know what would really redeem you?”

“What’s that?”

You tilt your head, a little smug now. “A Chicken Shop Date.”

His face lights up. Eyes crinkling, grin slow and full of interest. “Are you asking?”

You give a half-shrug, teasing. “I’m floating the idea.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Float it a little closer. I’ll be there.”

You raise your mic like you’re ending the segment, but your smile says otherwise. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep now.”

Drew points at you one last time, backing away, laughing now. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And he’s gone.

But the camera’s still rolling. And you’re still standing there, smiling like maybe you just started something you can’t quite stop.

There’s something about red carpets that makes people forget how to stand. They either fidget too much or freeze entirely. You’ve seen grown men with IMDB pages longer than your grocery list spiral because you asked them about socks.

But tonight, you feel good.

The JPG dress hugs your frame like it was tailored in a past life. Red beads and soft mesh, all attitude and elegance, and you’re wearing it like armor dipped in perfume. The heels are somewhat manageable, your liner hasn’t smudged, and you’ve hit that sweet spot between professional and on a roll. The lights are bright, the people are buzzing, and you’re halfway through your cue cards when it happens.

It’s subtle at first. Like the air itself rearranges. A quiet shift that you don’t even register until your skin prickles and the energy around you starts to pull inward.

Your brain kicks into gear, running through the semi-intensive research you did on every major name set to appear tonight.

Drew Starkey. Thirty-one. Southern kid who made it in Hollywood. Starring in five films slated for 2026, all directed by the best in the business. He's at the peak of his career. And now he’s here. In front of you. Taller than you expected. Sharper in real life. Completely, devastatingly gorgeous.

Red carpets are always chaotic. Photographers yelling for attention, lenses clicking like firecrackers. Publicists pacing, phones to their ears. Assistants crouched at the edge of the frame, smoothing creases, fixing collars. It’s loud and fast and nothing about it feels natural. But Drew? He moves through the chaos with quiet confidence, Prada suit sharp, grin easy. There’s a slight glint in his eyes, like he knows how he looks but isn’t obnoxious about it. He walks like he’s never rushed a day in his life. And the second he steps into your light, he looks at you like you could split him an ocean or move mountains.

“Hello,” you call out, keeping your tone light.

“Hey,” he replies. His voice is easy, slow. “Stand on the cross?”

You nod. “Right there is perfect, thank you so much.” You take him in, head to toe, and offer a sly smile. “You look great. Is it a Prada suit?”

“It is a Prada suit,” His fingers trace the edge of the fabric almost absentmindedly.“They were kind enough to loan it to me.”

“Dangerous,” you hum. “You better not drink too much tonight. Too much fun causes accidents.”

He chuckles, eyes still on you. “I’m pretty set on keeping the arm and leg it’d cost me, so don’t worry.”

You laugh softly. “Good. I’d hate to see you sold off for a dry cleaning bill.”

That gets a real smile. One of those ones that sticks for a second too long. The camera guy behind you shifts his stance, sensing something electric.

You tilt the mic toward him, steadying your hand though your pulse has picked up ever so slightly. "Alright," you say, glancing up at him with a flicker of amusement, "if you could choose your Man of the Year, who would it be?"

Drew shifts his weight, hands sliding into the pockets of his tailored Prada trousers as he gives a low chuckle. His mouth curves slowly, like he already knows you’ll like the answer.

"I’m gonna have to go very basic, stereotypical answer here and say my dad."

You raise your brows, already smiling as the crowd behind you shifts, the sound of heels clicking and camera shutters ticking filling the edges of your awareness. "Dad takes it?" you tease, tilting your head just a little.

His grin deepens. "Dad takes it."

You watch the way his mouth moves around the words. There’s something charming in how confidently he says it; like he’s proud of that answer, not just using it to be cute. His eyes are locked on yours, expression so open you feel it in the pit of your stomach.

"That’s sweet," you say, letting the smile linger. "I hope he knows you feel that way."

"Oh, he’s definitely watching."

"Right now?"

He leans in a fraction, and it’s so slight that it’s almost imperceptible, but you feel it anyway. Like the gravity of him pulls at you. “Oh yeah. For sure.”

You look at the lens and wave, small and composed, the edge of your wrist grazing the mic you’re holding. “Hi Drew’s dad.”

There’s a laugh somewhere off camera, probably Yves, but it fades when Drew leans into frame beside you, closer than before. His shoulder brushes yours, the scent of something earthy and expensive trailing with him. His voice is low, playful.

“Sup, Dad?”

You glance back at him. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

There’s a beat where everything stalls. The rustle of fabric, the shouts from photographers, the constant shuffle of people, even the sounds from your own crew. Gone. Like the carpet fell silent just for the two of you.

You blink, unsure if it’s nerves or something else, but when your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Not with the polite detachment of a celebrity doing press, not even with the amused affection he showed a second ago.

He’s really looking at you.

Like he’s memorizing. Reading. Curious. Like you’re not supposed to be real and yet here you are, standing right in front of him, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide with that telltale glint of awareness. You suddenly feel your breath catch, just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you notice. You feel it in your chest. You’re hyperaware of the way your hand is curled around the mic, the way your left knee shifts under the pressure of your own balance, the tiny tug of your dress.

“Are you going to the after?” you ask, voice light but curious.

Drew’s head tilts slightly as he looks at you. There’s a delay, like he’s considering more than just the party. “I might,” he says. “Not sure. Are you?”

You sigh, not performative, not for the cameras, just a little tired. The kind of tired that comes from heels worn too long and adrenaline that’s starting to crash. “I’m honestly kinda beat. These shoes are killing me.”

He follows your eyes as they flick down to your feet. His gaze stays there for a beat longer than necessary. Then slowly, almost deliberately, it drifts upward. Over your legs, the curve of your hips, the line of your dress. When his eyes reach yours again, they’re a little darker.

“Shame,” he says. His voice is warm now, honey-slow and shameless. “Cause they make your legs look great.”

You let out a breathy gasp, the kind that turns into a laugh before it’s even finished. Your hand flies to your chest in mock offense. “Drew,” you say, trying to sound scandalized but utterly failing. “I’m appalled by your straightforwardness.”

He lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug, the corner of his mouth curled in that lazy grin that’s undoubtedly already launched ten thousand GIFs. “I may or may not be a little tipsy already.”

A boom mic dips into your peripheral vision and you instinctively shift closer to him, the tiniest step in your heels, just enough to read as a whisper between two people who don’t want the rest of the world to hear.

You glance behind the camera where your handler is motioning with subtle urgency. A quick circle of his hand. Ten seconds.

You nod at her, then glance back at him. “That explains the charm,” you tease. “It’s spiked.”

His smile deepens, slower now. “Just this once.”

You flash him a parting smile, softer than the ones you’ve given tonight. Real. “Please have so much fun tonight. Maybe I’ll see you in there.”

His mouth curves again, crooked and contemplative. “Maybe you will.”

But he doesn’t move.

He stays there, not saying anything, just looking at you. His gaze drifts once more, slow and hungry and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or you, or maybe both. The way your dress clings in the light. The way your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to smile again. The way your fingers fidget with the edge of your mic, like touching something keeps you grounded.

Your heart ticks a little faster.

Someone calls his name from behind the camera, but he doesn’t respond right away. Eventually, he gives a small nod to no one in particular, then steps back.

You take a breath as he turns, the warmth of him still lingering in the air where he stood.

Your next guest is already stepping into frame. You smile, professional and poised, asking the first question on autopilot. But your hand grazes the curve of your dress again, like you’re smoothing away the imprint he left.

And a small, ridiculous part of you? It’s tucked somewhere in the inside pocket of his Prada jacket, waiting to be pulled out when he’s alone again.

"Maddy—"

"No! Go fuck yourself, Rafe!" Maddy’s voice cuts through the quiet apartment, sharp and trembling with fury, as she yanks her hair into a messy bun, the elastic snapping into place with a force that mirrors her frustration.

"I got caught up, Mads, I—"

"Go. Fuck. Yourself." She spits each word with deliberate clarity, her voice trembling as she strips out of her outfit, the fabric whispering against her skin as it falls to the floor. Her hands grab the cool silk of her blue satin nightgown, and she slips it on with quick, jerky movements. The sheen of the material glides over her flushed skin, but it offers no comfort.

On the other side of the door, his voice softens, persistent yet pleading. "C'mon, Maddy. Let me make it up to you."

She pauses, the sound of his begging igniting a bitter satisfaction that battles with the sting of her humiliation. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to sit there, waiting for someone who doesn’t fucking show? To feel everyone’s eyes on you, knowing they’re thinking, ‘Poor girl, stood up again, what a loser?’" Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay. She doesn’t want to cry. Not for him. Not again.

She reaches for her matching satin robe, the cool material slipping over her shoulders as she ties it tightly around her waist. The motion steadies her enough to walk to the bathroom. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, each step measured, a small effort to hold herself together.

"I got held up, baby. I should’ve texted, but I lost track of time—"

"And I’m just the last fucking thing on your mind, right?" She whirls toward the door, her voice rising with every word. "The absolute bottom of the list of all the important things Rafe Cameron has to deal with in a day! I know I’m the idiot in this situation, okay? I know that I’m the fool who keeps believing you’ll show up, and it’s on me! So, please, do me the courtesy of letting me live with my regret and embarrassment in peace! Can you at least do that?"

Her chest heaves as the words echo through the room, but this time, there’s no response. Just silence.

The quiet cuts deeper than any retort, and Maddy stands frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. He’s gone. The thought twists her stomach, disbelief settling in as her tears finally spill over.

She presses her lips together and turns toward the bathroom, determined to distract herself. She flips on the light and leans over the sink, the cool porcelain grounding her as she pumps cleanser into her hands. The repetitive motion of washing her face is all that keeps the anger from bubbling into a full breakdown. The water runs cool, trickling down her cheeks and mixing with the tears she refuses to acknowledge.

When her skin is clean, her makeup wiped away, she stares at her reflection, her red-rimmed eyes and the faint quiver of her lower lip betraying the storm inside her. Shaking her head, she turns off the faucet and pats her face dry with a towel.

She was halfway to her room, the soft padding of her bare feet muffled by the carpet, when the jingle of keys at the front door made her pause. Turning her head, she fully expected Cassie to walk in, bags in hand and an excuse ready. Instead, Cassie stumbled inside with Rafe right behind her, his presence casting a heavy shadow over the entryway.  

“What the fuck, Cassie?” Maddy’s voice exploded into the quiet apartment, the words sharp and laced with betrayal. Cassie flinched, startled by the sudden outburst, her eyes widening as she tried to make sense of the hostility.  

“What…?” Cassie stammered, confusion evident on her face as she glanced between her sister and Rafe.  

But Maddy wasn’t looking at her anymore. Her gaze had locked onto Rafe, his blue eyes meeting hers with an expression that almost looked sincere. Almost. His face carried an apology, but to Maddy, it felt hollow, too little, too late.  

“What happened? Are you…” Cassie began, her voice faltering when she caught the tension between them. Then, recognition dawned, her expression shifting to one of understanding as she let out a quiet, “Ohhh…”  

“Maddy—” Rafe stepped forward, his tone low and careful, but Maddy’s fury ignited. Her hand shot to the heel she’d left discarded earlier, her fingers curling around it.  

Without a second thought, she hurled the shoe directly at him. It sailed through the air, a blur of glittery vengeance, but Rafe dodged it with infuriating ease.  

“Get out!” Maddy’s voice cracked, her hands trembling with restraint. She didn’t trust herself to go near him—she knew she’d crumble if she did.  

“Will you just—”  

Before he could finish, she snatched up the second heel, her aim as fierce as her glare. This time, Rafe was ready, catching it mid-air with a frustratingly calm reflex. Undeterred, Maddy spun on her heel and bolted toward her room, her heart pounding as she tried to slam the door shut behind her.  

Rafe was quicker. His foot wedged into the doorway just before it clicked shut, and with one firm push, he was inside.  

“Go away! I don’t want you here!” Maddy shoved at his chest, her palms hitting the firm wall of muscle, but he didn’t budge.  

“I’ll call the police!” she threatened, her voice rising in desperation. “Cassie, call the police!”  

Rafe turned his head to look at Cassie, who stood frozen in the hallway, torn between loyalty and fear. “I know where your sister lives,” he warned, his tone low and deliberate.  

“You wouldn’t!” Cassie gasped, her face pale.  

“He wouldn’t hurt Lexi,” Maddy scoffed, though her voice wavered as she tried to wriggle free from Rafe’s grasp.  

“Wanna find out?” he shot back, his grip tightening as he lifted her off the ground with infuriating ease.  

Cassie hesitated, her wide eyes darting between them. Finally, she whispered, “He scares me more than you do. I’m so sorry. I love you!” And with that, she darted out of sight.  

“Cassie, I hate you!” Maddy yelled after her, her fists pounding weakly against Rafe’s chest as he carried her back into the room.  

When the door clicked shut behind them, Maddy huffed, crossing her arms tightly as she glared at him. “Now what? Gonna apologize again? Apology not accepted.”  

He exhaled heavily, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, careful like he was handling a wild animal. “You aren’t the last thing on my mind,” he said gently. “You matter to me, Maddy. You know that. You have to know that.”  

Her lips parted to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting her off. “I fucked up, okay? I should’ve texted. I lost track of time, and the moment I realized, I dropped everything and raced across town to get to you.” His voice was quiet, steady, each word aimed at breaking down her defenses.  

“Would I be here, fighting like this, if I wanted to stand you up? If I didn't care?” he murmured, stepping closer, his gaze locking onto hers.  

She crossed her arms tighter, her chin lifting in defiance, but the crack in her armor was showing. Rafe saw it. He always did.  

Gently, he reached out, tugging her arms apart. His fingers were warm, firm but unthreatening, as he placed the softest kiss on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips brushing her skin like a feather.  

Maddy stood frozen, her breath catching as he kissed her again, this time along her arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her skin, his voice like a low hum that sent shivers down her spine.  

Another kiss followed, this one trailing to her arm, then lower, the silk of her robe slipping away under his hands as he moved with deliberate care.

“Rafe,” Maddy breathed, her resolve faltering as his lips found her bare thighs.

He sank to his knees before her, hands gliding over her skin, reverent and firm. His touch was practiced, intimate, the way his fingers hooked under the hem of her robe and pushed it up, exposing her.

Her breath hitched as he lifted one of her legs, draping it over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before he disappeared between her thighs.

The first flick of his tongue stole a gasp from her lips, her head falling back as pleasure overtook her. Rafe was relentless, skilled in a way that made her body betray her every time. He knew every sensitive spot, every way to drive her past the brink of sanity.

His tongue slowly licks up her slit and he stays buried there lapping along her hole and soft folds—for way too long if you're asking Maddy— he does it because he knows she's slowly losing it, wants to push her, to get her to the point where she's rutting against his mouth aimlessly seeking, begging for release.

It's only been a couple of seconds and Maddy can already feel just how soaking wet she is, just how much slick she's getting all over Rafe's face and he doesn't even seem to mind, he's mouthing and licking at her cunt and the pleasure is turning her into a trembling, moaning mess. "R-Rafe..!" Maddy frustratingly pushes her pussy against his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as her body trembled beneath his relentless attention. He never rushed, never faltered.

When his tongue makes first contact with her clit, Maddy's sure she's going to come. The pleasure is beyond measurable and she feels her legs wobble but Rafe reaches out just in time to steady her. "S' too much!" she's whining, tears in her eyes and yet she's pushing her cunt against his mouth.

Rafe pays her no mind—he never really does when he's eating her out. It always started as something for her but ended as something he completely lost himself in. It was an addiction for him, a terrible one that would have her overstimulated and forced to cum too many times.

His tongue laps her clit, flicking the little nub and Maddy feels delirious, can't breathe because the pleasure is suffocating her. "God, fuck..d-don't stop..please!" Maddy whines so loud, she knows Cassie can hear her. She can't find it in her to care. "Rafe!" she cries again as her robe slips off her shoulders and to the floor.

Rafe's tongue darts out again, pushing against her hole and teasing it before he seems to pity how Maddy can barely stand anymore. Her legs are trembling, she's entirely out of breath, in a daze and terribly close to cumming.

He pushed her higher, further, until the only sounds in the room were her gasping breaths and the soft moans she couldn’t suppress.

He wouldn’t stop—not until she was a trembling mess, completely undone. And even as she clung to him, her body arching and pleading for mercy, she knew the truth. No one else could ever make her feel this way. No one ever had.

No one ever would.

Maddy feels that pit in her guts, feels the familiar heat pooling her and she's rutting her pussy against Rafe's lips, letting out these fucked-out moans. "Gonna c-cum..I-I..mm..! F—" Maddy's whines were interrupted by her own sharp gasp as her vision went blurry with tears, her back arches and her sweet cum mixed with slick come gushing out and dripping down her legs.

Maddy's ragged breaths fill the room, her chest rising and falling as she tries to steady herself. Rafe moves with a deliberate ease, lowering her trembling leg back to the ground with care. In one fluid motion, he rises to his feet, his strong hands sliding around her waist to steady her. Her body sways slightly, weak and unsteady, and he tightens his grip, holding her upright before she can crumple to her knees.

“You good?” His voice is low, rough around the edges but laced with concern. He’s solid and unwavering as she leans into him.

She nods slowly, her head lolling slightly as if the motion takes more effort than it should. Her mind is still swimming, every thought hazy, her body humming with lingering electricity. “Shower...” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as her arms instinctively loop around his neck, seeking the closeness she couldn’t seem to let go of.  

Rafe doesn’t hesitate. He scoops her up effortlessly, one arm supporting her back while the other hooks beneath her knees, cradling her against him like she weighs nothing at all. “Shower?” he repeats, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through her. “Don’t think we’re gonna do much showering if I get in there with you.” The words are teasing, but there’s a heat behind them, a promise that makes her pulse quicken despite her exhaustion.

"I hate this," Maddy announced with a defiant flair, tossing her book onto the floor beside where she sat cross-legged. The thud echoed her frustration.  

"Like, being alive? Because same," BB deadpanned, not even looking up from where she was scrolling on her phone.  

Maddy’s eyes flicked to her in mild disbelief. “No, BB. Do you need help?” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking or genuinely not alright.  

BB shrugged nonchalantly. “I see someone. We eat Slim Jims together.”  

Maddy blinked, then glanced at Kat, silently questioning whether she was imagining this bizarre conversation. Kat gave a subtle shake of her head, confirming it was, in fact, real.  

“I’m sick of this,” Maddy groaned, leaning back on her hands. “Am I supposed to memorize every little thing I highlight? Because that’s not really working for me.”  

Cassie leaned over, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder as she glanced at Maddy’s scattered notes. “Are you even reviewing it properly?” she asked, her tone tinged with mild reproach.  

Maddy whipped her head around to glare at her. “I can’t. You broke my lucky highlighter.”  

Cassie’s lips twitched in amusement, clearly unimpressed. “It wasn’t lucky just because it was a pretty highlighter, Maddy.”  

Maddy opened her mouth, ready to argue, when her phone buzzed from where it rested between her thighs. She glanced down at the screen, where ‘Dickhead’ flashed in bold letters.  

Her fingers hovered over the phone as she hesitated, weighing her options.

With a sigh, Maddy reluctantly swiped to accept the call and pressed her phone to her ear. “I could’ve sworn I blocked your number,” she mused, feigning confusion. The smirk in her voice was deliberate, and she could practically hear him grinning on the other end.  

“I could’ve sworn going to university meant you’d at least be smart enough to figure out where the block button is located. Guess we were both wrong, huh?”  

Maddy rolled her eyes, leaning back against her bed, knees tucked up to her chest. “You should count yourself lucky I haven’t figured it out yet.”  

“Yeah, I should,” he replied, and for a brief moment, she thought he sounded almost sincere.  

“I’m outside. Let’s go for a drive,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  

“How do you even know I’m not out?” she challenged, even as she got to her feet, heading toward her closet.  

There was a brief muffled noise on the line, the sound of him shifting, before his voice came back, clear and slightly smug. “Like you’d go out after having class from eight to eight.”  

She paused, pulling out a top and tilting her head at his tone. “How do you even know I had class from eight to eight?”  

“You have this really bad habit called complaining,” he shot back with a dry laugh. “And you do it 24/7. You’ve ranted about this particular schedule so many times it’s burned into my brain.”  

“Hm,” she murmured, unable to argue because, well, he wasn’t wrong.  

“Anyway,” he said, voice softening slightly, “come down.”  

Maddy pulled a pair of jeans from her closet and tossed them onto the bed with a huff. “Am I your dog now? Should I bark for you too?” she retorted.  

His laugh came quick, deep, and unapologetically amused. “Not necessary. Though you can always get on your knees if you’re feeling generous—you’ve always looked your best down there.”  

She froze for half a second, glaring at her outfit choices as her jaw tightened. “Fuck you,” she snapped, and she was seconds away from ending the call.  

“I would if you’d come down,” he said smoothly, the casual arrogance in his voice stirring something she refused to acknowledge.  

“Pass. Ask someone else,” she replied coldly, though she knew she wasn’t convincing anyone.  

“Christ, relax,” he said quickly, as though sensing she was about to hang up. His voice softened into something almost pleading. “Mad, please, come downstairs. Just drive around with me.”  

Maddy sighed, dragging out an exaggerated “uhhh's” and “mmm's” for effect, but they both knew the truth. She was already pulling on her clothes.

Her friends protested, of course. It was practically tradition at this point—they didn’t approve of the guy who managed to drive Maddy insane six out of seven days a week. But lately, it was becoming painfully clear to them that their objections were falling on deaf ears. The more they tried to stop her, the more Maddy seemed determined to keep seeing him.  

“It’s just a ride, Kat,” Maddy repeated for what felt like the third time, shimmying into the bejeweled denim skirt she’d picked out.  

“Is it just a ride?” Kat shot back, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe. “Because I think this is your third ride this week. That’s a lot of rides for someone who isn’t your boyfriend.”  

Maddy scrunched her nose at the comment, twisting to check the fit of her skirt in the mirror. She adjusted her crop top, pulling it into place before casually replying, “Who said I even want a boyfriend?” Her voice was light, but there was something unspoken beneath it—something her friends had noticed but never brought up.  

“Maybe you don’t want a boyfriend,” Cassie chimed in from her spot on the bed, barely looking up from her notebook as she copied down notes. “But you definitely want Rafe.”  

The quiet, knowing way Cassie said his name made Maddy pause for half a second. She tugged at her belly button piercing, making sure it sat just right before snapping back with her usual deflection. “Yeah, I want him to f—” Her words cut off abruptly as her phone started ringing.  

“God, he’s so impatient,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She took a final look at her reflection, smoothing a hand over her sleek ponytail to ensure it was perfectly in place, then grabbed her phone and made her way to the door.  

“See you tomorrow! I’ll be in class, Kat. Don’t worry!” Maddy called over her shoulder, blowing a dramatic kiss as she stepped out.  

“Don’t encourage her,” Kat mumbled to Cassie, her look of exasperation following Maddy until the door clicked shut.  

Maddy answered the call just as the elevator doors slid open. “I’m in the elevator,” she said casually.  

“You were in the elevator ten minutes ago, Mad,” came his low, familiar drawl.  

She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Mmm, I lied. But I promise, I’m in the elevator now.” The doors opened to the ground floor as if on cue, and she stepped out into the lobby, phone pressed to her ear.  

“Good, because I’m about to drive off,” he murmured, and Maddy could hear the faint hum of his car engine through the phone.  

“See? Told you,” she said, her voice tinged with quiet amusement as she spotted his car parked across the street. The sleek black vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its windows tinted so dark it was hard to tell if anyone was inside.

Without hesitation, she crossed the street, the faintest flicker of anticipation settling in her chest.

She hangs up, glancing both ways before crossing the street. Her gaze settles on the familiar black Jaguar F-Type parked under the dim glow of the streetlights. The car looks as pristine as always, a reflection of its owner. Sliding into the passenger seat, she barely has time to close the door before something shiny in the cupholder catches her eye.  

“I’ve been looking for this!” Maddy gasps, reaching for her Victoria’s Secret lip gloss like it’s a lost treasure. She unscrews it with practiced ease as Rafe starts backing out of the parking spot, the low purr of the engine filling the silence. “None of your other bitches have been touching it, I hope?” she adds, her tone laced with faux sweetness as she waves the applicator near her lips.  

“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so,” Rafe replies, his voice casual and teasing, though the faintest curve of amusement tugs at his lips.  

Maddy narrows her eyes at him, feigning offense before crossing her arms and staring at the road. Her pout is met with a quiet chuckle as Rafe reaches for something, placing it on her lap with an air of indifference.  

Her gaze drops to the small white box, perfectly wrapped with a delicate bow. Her irritation melts in an instant, replaced by the spark of excitement that always accompanies unexpected gifts. “For me?” she asks, her smile lighting up the dim interior of the car. “My birthday isn’t for another couple of months.”  

“They’ll look good on you,” Rafe says, his tone as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.  

With nimble fingers, Maddy undoes the bow and lifts the lid. Her breath catches when she sees what’s inside—a pair of Dior earrings, elegantly nestled in the box. But they’re not just any earrings; they’re the exact pair she’d admired through a boutique window just a few days ago with him.

“How did you even know I wanted these?” she exclaims, her voice filled with disbelief and delight as she gently lifts one of the earrings to examine it.  

“Just happened to be paying attention,” he says with a shrug, his tone betraying no effort, though the way his fingers tighten around the steering wheel says otherwise.  

Maddy giggles, her joy spilling over as she turns to him, clutching the box. “Thank you!” she beams, leaning over the console to plant a flurry of kisses on his cheek.  

He allows it for a moment, his usual stoic expression softening just enough for her to catch the faintest smile ghosting across his face. But just as quickly, he’s composed again, eyes firmly on the road.  

“C’mon, baby. I’m driving,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost scolding, though his tone holds no real weight.  

Maddy doesn’t care. She presses her lips to his, her hand resting on his cheek to keep him from pulling away. It’s playful at first, her kisses light and teasing as she revels in the warmth of his skin. But then her movements slow, her lips lingering just a little longer, her breath mingling with his.  

Rafe’s focus wavers, his eyes flicking between the road and her with growing urgency. Her kisses deepen, pulling him into a moment that’s both reckless and intoxicating. He’s seconds away from surrender when an unsettling instinct flickers to life. His eyes snap open, and he catches sight of a motorcycle in his peripheral vision—far too close.  

“Shit!” he mutters, swerving sharply to avoid it, his hand gripping the wheel with precision. The car straightens out, the near miss leaving his heart pounding, though his expression remains composed.  

Maddy leans back in her seat, unfazed. “You’re a really good driver,” she hums, as if she hadn’t just caused a near-accident.  

Rafe glances at her, his disbelief evident as his jaw tightens. “Put your seatbelt on,” he orders, his tone firm but low, turning his attention back to the road.  

Maddy grins to herself, her fingers brushing the earrings still in her lap. There’s a warmth lingering in the space between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

Maddy reluctantly settles back into her seat, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she fastens her seatbelt. The soft click echoes in the confined space, but her mind is already moving. “You should get a new tattoo,” she muses, her tone light and playful as she twists to face him.

Rafe arches a brow, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Why?”

“I have an idea for a really good one,” she promises, the excitement already sparking in her voice. She leans forward, reaching for the glove box, her fingers brushing the latch.

“Don’t,” Rafe says sharply, his hand darting out to grip her wrist before she can open it.

The firmness in his tone startles her, and she pulls back slightly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Jesus, is it filled with cocaine or something?” she blurts, the accusation more sarcastic than serious, though her curiosity is piqued when Rafe tilts his head, his silence deliberate.

Her mouth falls open in exaggerated disbelief. “It is?”

“It isn’t,” he assures her, releasing her wrist with a sigh. “I wouldn’t put you in a car full of cocaine. Now would I?”

Maddy shrugs, settling back into her seat but still watching him intently. “I think we’ve established you’re capable of a lot of things,” she retorts, her tone breezy but laced with the kind of familiarity only they shared.

Rafe exhales, running a hand through his hair as he pulls into a mostly empty parking lot. The bodega’s flickering neon sign buzzes faintly in the distance, the only other cars scattered around looking as unassuming as his sleek Jaguar tried not to. He eases the car to a stop and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“There’s nothing in the car, Maddy. I just don’t want you rummaging through my shit,” he says, pushing open the door with a sigh. Maddy frowns, “A LaCroix, please. The hi—”

“Hibiscus, I know.” Rafe finishes for her.

“And p—”

“Pink Starburst, uh-huh.” He waves her off before she can finish the sentence, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Maddy watches him disappear into the shop, her eyes lingering on the broad line of his shoulders as he walks away. Once he’s out of sight, her gaze flickers back to the glove box, her fingers twitching slightly in her lap.

It wouldn’t hurt to peek, right?

Her resolve falters for a moment, but curiosity wins. She glances toward the shop again, ensuring Rafe is fully inside, before cautiously reaching over. Her fingers rest on the latch for a heartbeat before she opens it.

The contents are ordinary at first glance: papers and documentation stacked neatly, the familiar pack of Hubba Bubba gum she leaves in his car for emergencies, and two phone chargers coiled neatly.

But her eyes catch on something else.

Nestled at the back of the compartment, sleek and unmistakable, is a gun.

Maddy’s breath catches as she stares at it, her pulse quickening. It’s not like she didn’t know what Rafe was involved in but seeing the reality of it in such stark clarity sends a shiver down her spine.

She snaps the glove box shut, her fingers trembling slightly as she leans back in her seat, her heart thudding in her chest.

A minute later, the driver's door swings open, and Rafe slides back into the car, a crinkling plastic bag dangling from his hand. He doesn’t rush, settling in as if the silence between them isn’t pressing. From the bag, he pulls out her LaCroix and the familiar pink wrapper of Starbursts. He holds them out to her, but just as her fingers brush the drink, he pulls it back, his gaze locking onto her with unnerving precision.   "You looked in the glove box," he says evenly, his tone a quiet accusation.  

Maddy freezes for a fraction of a second, but her face betrays nothing as she crosses her arms. "No, I didn’t," she says quickly, too quickly, reaching for her drink again.  

Rafe keeps it just out of reach, tilting his head as he studies her. "You’re scared."  

"I’m not scared," she insists, though the way her gaze avoids his, staring fixedly out the windshield, says otherwise.  

He shifts in his seat, his expression softening, but his movements are deliberate. Without warning, he leans over, his fingers deftly clicking open her seatbelt.  

Her head whips toward him, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?"  

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, as his hands settle on her hips.  

Her breath catches, a sharp flutter in her chest she wishes she could suppress. Maddy hesitates, gripping the edge of her seat. "It’s fine," she blurts, her voice lighter than she wants it to be. "I didn’t even look in the glove box."  

Rafe rolls his eyes with a soft huff, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Maddy," he says, exasperated but tender, "come here."  

She exhales slowly, kicking off her shoes before reluctantly climbing over the console, her movements slow but deliberate. She settles into his lap, her hands instinctively finding their place on his face. Her thumbs trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones—an action so familiar it feels second nature—and she notices the faintest hint of a smile twitch at the corners of his lips.  

His hand curves around her waist, firm but not forceful, and his voice drops, brushing against her skin like a whisper. "It’s a precaution," he says, his lips so close they almost graze hers.  

Her brows knit together, her voice barely above a whisper. "You never had a gun before. Are you in danger?" Her heart pounds at the question.

Rafe’s chuckle is soft, almost disarming. "I’ve always had a gun," he admits, the revelation slipping out casually as if it were nothing more than a passing fact.  

She frowns, her mind racing to every moment they’d shared, trying to recall any sign, any hint, but there’s nothing. "You’ve *always* had one?"  

"I don’t usually advertise it," he says, his thumb brushing absently against her waist. "It’s a precaution, Maddy. I don’t go around waving it at people."  

Her lips part as if to ask another question, but the weight of it stops her. "Have you ever..." The words catch in her throat, her voice faltering.  

He meets her wide-eyed stare, his brows lifting slightly. "Killed someone?" he finishes for her, his tone light, almost amused. "No, Maddy. Of course not." He exhales a laugh, though it doesn’t completely erase the tension lingering between them.  

"Well, I don’t know!" she snaps, her voice sharp but edged with a genuine bewilderment that makes him laugh harder.  

"I haven’t," he assures her, his laughter fading into a low hum. "And I really hope I never have to. Seems like a real headache to deal with." He leans in, pressing a series of soft, feather-light kisses to her lips, the kind that make her breath hitch despite herself.  

"Although," he adds, his voice teasing as he pulls back slightly, "I deal with you and manage, so maybe?"   Maddy gasps, her hands smacking against his shoulder in mock indignation. "You don’t deserve me," she mutters, though the warmth in her tone betrays the sting of her words as she reaches for the Starbursts he’s still holding.  

Rafe doesn’t respond immediately, his expression softening into something unreadable. Then, as if the words are meant only for him, he murmurs, "Yeah, maybe not..."  

His lips find the curve of her jaw, leaving a trail of kisses that lead up to the shell of her ear. Her breath catches again, and as his arms tighten slightly around her, she wonders how he always manages to pull her closer, even when she swears she’s already as close as she can get.  

"You never listened to my tattoo idea," Maddy murmurs, her words soft as she chews on a piece of candy, the crinkled wrapper already balled up in her hand. Her voice carries an almost playful lilt, though there’s a spark of anticipation in her eyes.  

Rafe glances her way, one hand casually resting on her waist, the other on her lap. "Tell me," he says, his tone indulgent as he reclines his chair slightly, settling in as if prepared for one of her whims.  

Instead of answering, she rummages through her bag, pulling out a lipliner with a victorious smile. "Hold out your hand," she demands, extending her own toward him.  

His brow arches in mild skepticism. "You can’t just tell me?"  

She shakes her head, her grin widening as if she’s already thought five steps ahead. "What better way to convince you than to show you?"  

With a small, reluctant sigh, he places his hand in hers, the warmth of his palm meeting her smaller one. She immediately pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, her fingers brushing lightly over his skin as she searches for the perfect canvas. The touch lingers, deliberate yet unspoken, as if she’s memorizing the lines of his forearm.  

Her concentration deepens, her brows knitting together as she sets to work. Rafe watches her, his lips twitching with amusement when she absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear to keep it from falling into her face. The way her lower lip juts out slightly in focus, the faint smudge of gloss catching the light—everything about her seems unconsciously captivating, and he doesn’t bother hiding the way his gaze lingers.  

"All done." she announces, her voice bright with triumph as she lifts his arm to admire her masterpiece. Her brown eyes gleam with excitement, and Rafe looks at his forearm.  

There, in bold, looping letters, is the declaration: *Property of Madeleine Perez*, encircled by a cluster of hearts.  

He stares at it for a beat before throwing his head back with laughter, the sound rich and unguarded in the small space of the car.  

"You don’t like it?" Maddy asks, tilting her head to admire her work, her smile unwavering.  

"No, no," he manages between chuckles, the corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. "I’m gonna call my tattoo artist first thing in the morning. That’s how much I love it."  

She beams, her expression pure mischief as she leans down and presses a quick kiss to his lips, her hand lingering on his cheek. "You’re not serious, but I think it would send the right message to people, you know? Just so no one wastes their time."  

Rafe’s laughter softens, his gaze locking with hers. "The right message to people, huh? Or just to girls?"  

Her thumb grazes his lips, the touch feather-light yet deliberate. "You said it," she murmurs, her voice quieter now, though no less teasing. Her dark eyes search his, a subtle challenge dancing within them.  

"Careful, Perez," he warns softly, his nose brushing against hers as his fingers tighten gently around her waist. "Don’t go falling in love with me now."  

his lips remain tight, his gaze hard, but he doesn’t pull away. you take the opportunity to scatter soft kisses across his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips. your touch is gentle, alternating between quick pecks and lingering brushes. at first, he’s unresponsive, but slowly he starts kissing back, his lips yielding to yours in unspoken surrender.

you trail your kisses lower, down along the line of his jaw to his neck. you feel the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, the tightness in his posture softening under the warmth of your lips.

your hand glides down his chest, your fingertips barely grazing the ridges of his abs, tracing slow, soothing patterns. his breaths come slower now, steadier, the anger slowly ebbing away with each kiss you leave on his skin.

rafe remains still, his arms resting at his sides, his body still tense under your gentle touch and then your hands find the edge of his sweatpants.

your hand is halfway in when he tenses, "you don't have to do this—" he starts but you're cutting him off. "i want to." you whisper softly and he knows you want to, you've been trying and asking for days. he was the one to insist you go slower which was fair since you were the one who wanted to go slow in the very beginning. that all changed the moment you two made out for the first time. you'd quickly thrown 'slow' in the trash.

you kiss your way back to his lips, "will you tell me how?" you'd seen videos and could also imagine what to do but actually doing it was a lot different. rafe hums against your lips, "take it out first," he mutters with his lips inching yours.

you glance down and slowly take his semi-hard cock out of his pants. you stare at it for a couple of seconds. it's heavier than you'd imagined, fat and veiny with this glossy pink tip that makes your mouth water just a little. without a word from rafe, you're curiously running your hand along it.

you don't expect rafe to tense at your touch and you're immediately looking up at him in surprise when he does. "did that hurt? did i just hurt you?" you ask and his smile is genuine, "quite the opposite." he rasps and then his hand is covering yours gently. he guides your hands up and down along his fat cock and you're a little mesmerised watching it slowly grow in size.

rafe's heavy breathing tells you it's going good so far but you want to get it in your mouth. the nerd in you is trying to calculate how it would even be possible, how you could get such a big dick past your lips without choking on it.

you're lowering your head to get him into your mouth when he stops you gently, fingers on your chin. "no teeth." he explains and you're nodding before you're desperately trying to get down there again. he stops you, again. "just..take it easy, start with the tip and slowly take more." he continues, eyes boring into yours. you could see the lust in them, just pooling in his eyes as he watched you practically drool to get his cock in your mouth.

the moment he let go of you, your tongue was darting out just enough to slowly lick along his fat tip. rafe hissed and gripped the car handle, "fuck," he whispered lowly. you pulled back and looked at it. you weren't sure why you expected it to do something and when it didn't, you just gave it another experimental lick before slowly wrapping your lips around the tender head, suckling gently.

"that's it, baby..take it easy.." rafe is muttering as you suckle on his warm tip. you hesitate for only a second before you're taking more of him in your mouth and you don't expect the tears to come so quickly. they don't really bother you. you realize nothing really bothers you while he's in your mouth. your mind has gone completely empty, void of any noise or thought, he's all you can feel, all you can sense is him filling you up.

it doesn't take long before you're bopping your head up and down and drooling all over his cock. rafe is groaning and grunting every couple of seconds and his hands are in your hair but you can feel him resisting, can feel the moment he wants to push your head down but every time, he stops himself and just lets you go at your own pace.

you whimper when you attempt for the third time to get his entire lenght down your throat and almost want to cry in frustration that he just won't fit. rafe is holding your head back, trying to say something but continously getting cut off by his own moans. "p-perfect, baby, fuck, that's perfect.." he tilts his head back and holds onto you so you stop moving for five seconds. you were eager, so goddamn determined. "stop forcing..you'll hurt yourself." he grunts before he's letting you go and your mouth is right back on his cock, seeking that fuzzy feeling, that instant quietening of the mind.

you know he won't fit unless rafe bucks his hips up and fucks your mouth and you know he won't do that so you settle for using your hands for the part of him you can't reach. you stroke him up and down and your drool helps keep it all smooth and wet. "jesus..fuck, fuck.." rafe moans, voice low, and then you're speeding up, just a little. you just want more, want it to take you over, want to make rafe feel good.

something seems to snap in him because his hands fly to your hair and he's groaning, shoving your head down onto his fat cock. he forces you to take more and more of him and the noises you make are filthy and down-right obscene. you're whining, high, and desperate around his veiny cock as you try to keep up with how he's pushing your head down over and over.

you're choking around him, tears streaming down your cheeks and he's doing all the work now, gripping your hair and shoving your head down, pushing your mouth onto his cock. "g-god..that's it..!" his hips stutter, and then he's hurriedly pulling your mouth off of him as his cum squirts out and covers his cock and a bit of his shirt.

you stare at his tip, a little dazed while you catch your breath. you watch the creamy white lines cover it and without giving it much thought, you're licking the cum off his length and tip. rafe hisses at the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive tip, "if i knew you wanted it, i would've come in your mouth." he's mumbling, and only then do you look at him, "why didn't you?" you ask, mind still a little fuzzy.

"because a lot of people don't like it." he's got this lazy smile on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair. you blink at him and try to think of a reason someone wouldn't want it. all that hard work for nothing?

"did you like it?" you ask him as he sadly puts himself back in his sweats. he's chuckling, "did i like it? that has to be a rhetorical question." he pats his leg gently and you're on his lap in a matter of seconds. "i liked it." you mutter as he presses a couple of kisses to your lips. he pauses and cups your cheeks gently, "are you sure you liked it?" he's whispering softly, "you seem..out of it."

you were out of it; eyes still dilated, mind still fuzzy, brain still empty. you'd never ever felt like this. "i'm really sure i liked it." you nod and rest your head on his shoulder. "i wanna do it again." you confess which has him chuckling again. "you won't hear a complaint from me.

sunday, march 2nd

rafe was a heavy sleeper. you never knew that—not until now. he slept like a log, completely undisturbed despite the world moving around him. even with the sun pouring through the windows, turning his hair and eyelashes a shade of gold so soft it looked spun from honey, even with the familiar morning symphony of your family filling the house—your sister's giggles echoing from the yard as she played with your mom, your little brother waddling through the living room, bottle clutched in his tiny hands as he repeatedly bumped his head against rafe’s thigh—he didn’t so much as stir.  

he should consider himself lucky. you, on the other hand, could wake up from the mere sound of a door creaking open down the hall.  

you tried to imagine him in your bed instead of sprawled across your couch, head buried in your pillows, wrapped up in your blanket. would he sleep on the left or the right? hopefully the left, since you slept on the right—closest to the window, where the first light of morning always found you.  

did he dream? or did he have nightmares? did he mumble in his sleep? would you wake up to hear him speaking in slurred, sleepy gibberish, too out of it to make sense?  

did he sleep in sweats? pajamas? a button-up? shirtless? that felt very much like rafe, but you didn’t know. not yet, at least.  

did he linger in bed for thirty minutes before dragging himself up, or was he like you? someone who counted down from five to one and forced temselves up at one.

endless possibilities.

and something inside you whispered that you would find out. maybe not today. maybe not tomorrow. but the day would come, and when it did, you'd cherish it.  

you'd watch him just like you were watching him now, cataloging every detail—the way his lashes rested against his cheek, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. you’d memorize how his hair fell, how his lips looked impossibly soft, how the little crease between his brows never quite smoothed out, even in sleep. and you'd be allowed. 

you wouldn’t have to stop yourself from reaching out.  

you wouldn’t have to fight the urge to kiss him.  

because he would be yours. completely, irrevocably yours.  

“take a picture, it'll last longer.”  

your sister’s voice snapped you from your thoughts. you barely spared her a glance, still leaning against the archway separating the living room from the dining room, cradling a mug of now-cold tea in your hands.  

“go away,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm.  

she was right, but she could be right somewhere else.  

you'd been staring at him for well over fifteen minutes, still in your pajamas, unable to make yourself move, unable to be anywhere else. you had already called off work because the thought of leaving right now—leaving him—felt unbearable.  

were you one of those girlfriend? the kind who couldn’t stay away, who hovered and obsessed?  

girlfriend felt too soon.  

but then again, rafe had told you he loved you. twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-four seconds ago, to be exact. 

your dad passed by, replacing your cold mug with a fresh one, steam curling in the air. you thanked him absentmindedly, fingers wrapping around the warmth.  

what kind of boyfriend would rafe be?  

you already knew he was touchy, that he liked kissing, that he had a habit of nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours, of holding eye contact just a little too long when you weren’t paying attention. he liked to watch you, studying you as you tutored him, as you cleaned, as if every little thing you did was worth committing to memory.  

but what about the rest?  

would he bring you flowers? take you to the movies, or more late-night drives along the coast? would he want to sit on the beach with you until the sky turned soft with morning, or would he prefer extravagant dates, something grand and exciting?  

what kind of gifts would he like?  

would he appreciate personalized things—carefully written ‘open when’ letters, little boxes filled with things meant just for him—or was he more materialistic? would he want his favorite cologne, designer watches, the kinds of things that held status?  

or would he prefer something he could do? something he could experience—a trip, an activity, something he could share with you or his friends?  

you’d probably just get him all of it. just to be sure.  

you’d only had one boyfriend before—not that you and rafe were official yet, but still.  

being a girlfriend the first time had been… odd.  

like having a boy who was a friend, and sometimes he kissed you, and it was just… fine.  

but with rafe?  

it felt nothing like that.  

and god, you wanted to do it right.  

maybe there was a research paper somewhere on how to be a good girlfriend.  

not that it mattered. rafe made it easy.  

he made your heart stutter, your stomach twist, your cheeks burn. he made you want to be good to him. to be perfect for him.  

and maybe that was impossible.  

but you would try.

rafe stirred, his arm lifting sluggishly to rub at his eyes, fingers dragging through the remnants of sleep. the motion caught your little brother’s attention immediately, his tiny head snapping up, curiosity flickering across his face at the sudden movement in the room. once he realized rafe was awake, he held out his arms in a way that said 'pick me up before i hurl this bottle at someone.'

"hey, buddy…" rafe rasped, voice thick with sleep as he reached for him, lifting him effortlessly and settling him onto his chest.  

you stayed still, watching in silence, your body at ease yet your heart hammering against your ribs. it was as if you could physically feel it swell, stretching wide with a warmth so intense it made your breath hitch.  

and then, as if he could sense it, his eyes found yours. sleepy, unfocused, but piercing all the same. that disarming gaze of his tugged at something deep within you, pulling you toward him like gravity itself. god, you wanted to go to him. to press yourself against him, burrow into his warmth, tuck your face into the crook of his neck and let the rest of the world fall away.  

"morning."  

his voice was quiet, rough around the edges, heavy with sleep. it was almost ridiculous how the sound of it sent tingles through every nerve in your body, warm and electric, curling low in your stomach.  

"morning."

your own voice was steadier than you felt, but your feet wouldn’t move. he looked so cozy—messy hair, sleepy eyes, the laziest, softest smile pulling at his lips. he was huggable, he was yours, and the ache to touch him, to climb into his space, to sink into his warmth, made your fingers twitch at your sides.  

his head rested against the couch arm, eyes impossibly tender as they traced over you.  

"gonna stay over there?"

he was almost smiling, teasing, but something expectant threaded through the words—something hopeful.  

your little brother wiggled off his chest and padded away, but rafe didn’t look away, didn’t so much as blink. he was watching you now, watching the hesitation in your stance, the way your weight shifted like you were trying to resist something inevitable.  

"i'm enjoying the view."

you grinned, and the corner of his lips twitched, a smirk creeping in slow and lazy.  

"taking in the sights?"

you nodded.  

"like what you see?" his brows lifted slightly, smirk deepening. "hope i’m up to standard."

another nod, another hum of approval.  

and then, softer—almost pleading—  

"c’mere."

your body moved before your mind could catch up. one second, you were standing. the next, you were there, sinking into him, his hands finding your waist as your knees pressed into the cushions.  

the need to touch him was unbearable, searing through your veins, clawing at your ribs.  

and then, finally, it hit you—you can.  

as much as you want. as long as you want.  

because he was yours.  

not some far-off dream.  

not a delusion.  

real.

your hands found his chest first, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cotton. slowly, they traveled upward, fingers brushing over his throat, his jaw, until your palms cradled his face, your thumb tracing the high point of his cheekbone.  

rafe turned into your touch, his lips brushing against the heel of your palm.  

"sleep okay?" he murmured, though there was a knowing edge to it, a quiet concern that made your stomach twist.  

because you both knew why he was asking.  

last night, by the time you’d finally come inside, you were wrecked. tear-streaked, hiccuping, clinging to rafe like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. you hadn’t wanted him to sleep on the couch. you had fought him on it, insisted, pleaded, but somehow—you weren’t even sure how—he had won that fight. maybe it was the exhaustion. maybe it was the way your body had already been shutting down from the sheer weight of the night.  

"me? i'm not the one who slept on the couch."

you narrowed your eyes, fingers still cupping his face, and his lips quirked at your pointed tone.  

"i slept good," he assured you. "hard surfaces are better for your back, you know?"  

you snorted, unconvinced. "got facts now, huh? copying me, cameron?"  

he chuckled, tilting his head against your palm, lashes fluttering briefly as he stretched out with a groan.  

"didn’t you know? i’m coming for your spot."  

your smile widened. "you sure you want that? i go to the library for fun, you know?"  

rafe made a face, and you laughed.  

"still want me?" you teased, only half joking.  

he tilted his head slightly, considering. for half a second.  

then, he kissed you.  

soft. chaste. a barely-there press of lips that still managed to steal the breath from your lungs. and god, you didn’t care that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet—you’d kiss him like this forever if he let you.  

when he pulled back, his nose nudged yours.  

"the real question is…" his voice was low, careful, like he was treading unsteady ground. "will you still have me?"  

you exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, just soaking him in.  

the past twenty-four hours had been an emotional wreckage. you had him, then you lost him, then you had him again in the span of a few, heart-crushing, life-altering hours.  

it was enough to make your head spin.  

enough to make you terrified that you could lose him just as easily.  

"that's a silly question."

your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he melted into you, hands slipping around your waist, tugging you even closer until you could feel his heartbeat against your own.  

"is it?" he murmured, his fingers dragging along the length of your spine, leaving shivers in their wake.  

"it is," you whispered. "m’never letting you go."  

his hold tightened.  

"you promise?"  

the words were barely audible, spoken against your skin, fragile in the way only he could be.  

you squeezed him, felt his heartbeat against your own.  

"cross my heart."

after a surprisingly normal breakfast, rafe had stepped outside to take a phone call. judging by the rare, genuine smile pulling at his lips, you were pretty sure it was sarah. his sister was one of the few people who could make him look like that—unguarded, softened.  

you were elbow-deep in soapy water, stacking dishes into the drying rack, when your mom poked her head into the kitchen. her eyes twinkled with thinly veiled curiosity.  

“so,” she started, dragging out the word as she leaned against the counter.  

you turned, brows lifting. “so?”  

her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the glass doors, where rafe was pacing the length of your backyard, phone in hand. “do you have a boy who is a little more than a friend?” she asked, feigning nonchalance.  

a smirk tugged at your lips. “mm, are you asking if rafe is my boyfriend?”  

“am i asking if the boy who has been sleeping on my couch and practically living in my house for the past two months is your boyfriend now? yes, i just might be.” she deadpanned, eyes shifting between you and the boy outside.  

you smiled to yourself, wiping down a plate. “nope.”  

“no?” your dad’s voice came out of nowhere, making you nearly jump. you turned to see him standing in the doorway, confusion written all over his face.  

your mom echoed his disbelief. “no?”  

you nodded, amused. “not yet.”  

your dad huffed, crossing his arms. “not yet? well, what the hell is his plan? because i’m not about to have some kid walking in and out of this house—”  

before he could finish his sentence, the sliding door creaked open. rafe stepped inside, still distracted by his phone, but when the room fell into a tense silence, his eyes flickered up.  

his brows furrowed. “uh… hey, guys…” his gaze found yours, searching. “am i interrupting or…?”  

you shook your head a little too quickly. “no, no. they were just wondering what time we got home last night.” you turned to your parents, forcing a casual tone. “around ten, i think. you had only just gone to bed.”  

your mom pursed her lips before smiling at rafe. “uh huh. well, hope the couch wasn’t too terrible. it’s not exactly made for sleeping.”  

rafe waved a hand dismissively. “it was fine. i should’ve asked before crashing, it was kind of a last-minute thing.”  

your dad, who moments ago was seconds away from throwing him out, suddenly beamed. “that’s alright, you’re always welcome here, son.”  

you gawked at him, utterly incredulous, but he ignored you.  

your mom grabbed your dad’s arm, tugging him toward the hallway. “well, we should go because…” she shot him a pointed look, silently urging him to come up with an excuse.  

“because…” he faltered, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “we have children! yes, we should check on our other children. the little one’s been, uh… constipated lately—”  

their voices trailed off as they disappeared down the hall, leaving you blinking after them.  

“your parents are funny,” rafe murmured, stepping up behind you. you barely had time to react before he dropped his head atop yours, the warmth of his body settling against your back.  

“they’re weird,” you corrected.  

he chuckled, a quiet, deep sound. “they’re a little weird.”  

his breath was warm against your temple, the closeness of him making your chest feel tight in a way you weren’t sure how to name.  

“want me to help you dry those?” he asked softly.  

you nodded, unable to stop the smile curling at your lips. “here.”  

you handed him a mug, and he slid away just enough to grab a dish towel, falling into step beside you.

"were you on the phone with sarah?” you ask quietly, unable to hide your curiosity.  

rafe nods, still absentmindedly drying the dish in his hands. “yeah, she was asking if i was eating dinner with them tonight. we’re in that phase where my parents act super happy that she’s home—before they start picking fights with her.”  

your brows pull together. “they didn’t know she was coming back?”  

“no, they did. it was only really a surprise for me.”  

your stomach twists a little at that. “sorry it didn’t go exactly as planned,” you murmur, voice laced with quiet regret.  

rafe doesn’t answer right away. instead, he gently takes the cup from your hands, setting it down on the counter before his fingers slip around yours, warm and firm. “i’m the one who should apologize,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “it happened at my house, with my friends. i invited you. i should’ve—i should’ve been better. if i knew—”  

“you already apologized,” you cut in softly. “a couple of times, actually. and it’s okay. you didn’t know.” you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i also have fault in this, you know?” you look away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “i was scared. scared to communicate, to let you all the way in, to trust you sometimes. i can say without a doubt that if i’d handled a few things differently, we wouldn’t be where we are.”  

rafe tilts his head side to side, clearly disagreeing. “you don’t have any fault in this.” he tugs you closer, guiding your arms around his neck. “how were you supposed to trust me when you already knew what i was like? maybe not in detail, but the vague image was always there—even before cora said anything. you were protecting yourself. it’s one of the most human responses.”  

your lips part, ready to argue, but he beats you to it. “but,” he exhales, a tiny smirk playing at his lips, “i doubt i’ll win this fight, so let’s just agree to disagree.”  

he kisses you once, then again, softer this time, like the words themselves weren’t enough to settle it. your lips twitch with a smile you can’t control.  

“agree to disagree,” you whisper against his mouth before pressing a few more kisses to his lips, unable to stop yourself.  

he lets out a small chuckle, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, slow and affectionate. you think you could live in this quiet forever.  

“what time are you leaving?” your voice is quiet, already heavy with the weight of missing him before he’s even gone.

“soon,” he murmurs, his breath warm as it brushes against your temple, “but i’m coming back.”

your brows knit together, searching his face, his eyes, the way his lips barely quirk like he knows something you don’t. “you’re coming back?”

he nods, fingers grazing the curve of your jaw like he’s memorizing it. “there’s this girl…”

your smile is instant, soft and knowing. “mm?”

“she’s been running through my mind for so long,” he says, voice dipping lower, threading through your hair, “and i’m crazy about her.”

your grin spreads, helpless against the pull of him. “sounds serious.”

“yeah.” he smirks like he’s got a secret, and god, you love when he looks at you like that. “and i haven’t taken her on a date yet.”

you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in mock scandal. “you haven’t taken her on a date yet?”

he shakes his head, feigning shame. “shameful, right?”

“absolutely. they should lock you up and throw away the key.”

his laughter rumbles between you, deep and warm, and you wish you could steal it, keep it somewhere safe. “damn,” he grins, pulling you closer. “throw away the key and everything?”

you nod solemnly. “except… if you can redeem yourself.”

he hums, amused. “redeem myself?”

you tip your chin up. “mmhm. like telling her where exactly you want to take her.”

his lips hover over yours, his voice a murmur against your mouth. “no can do. state secrets.” he presses a kiss to you, then another, softer between each word. “and we leave at four.”

your head spins. you barely register what he’s saying because all you can think about is the way he tastes, the way his hands tighten on your waist like he’d rather not let you go at all.

then he pulls back just enough to tilt his head, studying you like he’s about to say something important. “you should tell your parents you’re sleeping at hazel’s house,” he says casually, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, “and bring an overnight bag.”

your eyes widen. “an overnight bag?”

his smirk deepens at your reaction. “mmhm.”

“are we staying at your house?” you ask, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “give me a little more credit than that.”

you narrow your eyes but let it slide. “okay… how should i dress if you won’t tell me where we’re going?”

he exhales, like he’s carefully picking his words. “it’s… outside. we’re walking around. not hiking or anything, but walking. like, imagine a museum—but it’s not a museum.”

you blink. “imagine a museum, but it’s not a museum?”

he nods, his grin tilting. “and bring warm clothes to sleep in.”

your stomach flips at that. he must notice because he laughs softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “no, we are not sleeping outside.”

relief floods you. “thank god,” you mumble. “i’d do a lot of things for you, but camping? not one of them.”

rafe grins, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “camping is actually fun, you know,” he teases, his words muffled in your hair.

you let out a tiny, skeptical laugh. “yeah, the bugs, the grass, the dirt… my dream.”

his chest shakes with laughter, pressing his lips to your forehead. “you’re such a pessimist. they’re not bugs, they’re just little critters. it’s not grass and dirt,” he grins, “it’s nature and fresh air, and it’s good for your soul.”

“no, i’m a realist. and ‘critters’ do not sound better than bugs.”

his laughter softens, something deeper settling in his eyes as he looks at you. his arms tighten, holding you like he’s grounding himself in you, in this moment, in everything you are.

“you’re good for my soul,” you whisper, barely a breath between you. “that’s enough ‘good for the soul’ for me.”

his body relaxes against yours, the air shifting, something warm and certain pressing between your ribs. he leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, his breath stirring your hair.

“think it’s enough for me too, baby.”

you’d read somewhere that the brain falls in love in 0.2 seconds. a fraction of a moment—less than the blink of an eye—and suddenly, chemicals flood your system. dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline. the same kind of high that leaves people breathless, euphoric, addicted.  

you never really believed it. 0.2 seconds? seriously? your brain had to have more fight in it than that. love seemed more complex, something slow-building, something earned. but now, pressed against rafe’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you—you realize it wasn’t just true. it lasted a lot longer than that.  

and god, were you in trouble.  

eventually, rafe pulled himself away, murmuring something about needing to shower and change. he promised he’d be back at four, but you were too restless to wait. by two, you were already ready to go.  

you cleaned your room, checked over your schoolwork, called off volunteering, helped your mom downstairs—anything to burn through the extra energy buzzing beneath your skin. and still, there was too much time left.  

with nothing left to do, you were ready to just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until you got a text from your friends.

“hey!” you greeted, too bright, too excited.  

three pairs of eyes blinked at you through the screen, varying degrees of shock and mild concern staring back.  

“hey… y/n,” hazel started cautiously, brows furrowed. “are you okay?”

only then did you remember—they had no idea what had happened after ivy left.  

by the time you finished telling them everything, their reactions were wildly different.  

hazel, unsurprisingly, remained skeptical. her lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms, eyes narrowing in that way that told you she was biting back several very strong opinions. “you need to be careful,” she warned. “i wouldn’t have taken him back on principle.”  

you rolled your eyes, already bracing for a future where hazel inevitably fell in love and her poor, unfortunate partner suffered under her stubborn, unshakable sense of justice.  

devon, on the other hand, was thrilled. she’d always liked rafe the most, but devon liked everyone that could make her laugh. and since she found almost everything funny, her enthusiasm wasn’t exactly a surprise. “this was all adriana and cora’s fault,” she declared confidently. “it only seems complicated because of misunderstandings.”  

honestly, she wasn’t completely wrong.  

ivy was the last to react, but only because she needed everything explained twice. she kept getting lost in the names and timelines, but once she caught up, she leaned back, thoughtful. “i get where hazel’s coming from,” she admitted. “but… i’ve never seen someone look at another person the way rafe looks at you.” she shook her head, like even she couldn’t believe it. “he’s in love with you. and i think you guys deserve a real chance.”  

your chest tightened, an ache so sweet it almost hurt.  

hazel made valid points. you couldn’t deny that things could have been handled better, that rafe had a past, that there were risks.  

but love had to count for something.  

the way he touched you like you were something delicate and precious, the way he kissed you like he’d been starving for you, the way he looked at you—like you were the most important thing in the world.  

you had to see this through. you deserved to try.

by the time the conversation was winding down, your phone buzzed with a message from rafe—here—and before you could even process it, the doorbell rang. the timing made you smile, a giddy, unshakable thing that only grew as you imagined him just downstairs, waiting for you. waiting to kiss you the moment you reached him, to pull you close in the car, to sit beside you, hands brushing, the warmth of him something you could sink into.  

there weren’t enough words to describe what it felt like to be in love with rafe. he was lightning in your veins, a thrill in your pulse, the kind of presence that made your skin hum and your heart stumble over itself. every bit of him exhilarated you—the way he looked at you, the way he laughed, the way just existing near him felt like standing at the edge of something breathtaking.  

“alrighttt,” ivy teased from the tiny rectangle on your laptop screen, dragging out the word with a knowing smirk. “go get your man before you implode.” she waved a hand, shooing you off.  

“i’ll text every hour, okay?” you added, mostly directing it toward hazel, who nodded, lips quirking.  

“have fun!” devon grinned, throwing up a thumbs-up.  

“fun with protection,” hazel added flatly, and your jaw dropped, eyes going wide.  

“hazel!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scandalized.  

she only shrugged, entirely unbothered, and waved you off as you ended the call.  

you shut your laptop, the nerves settling in properly now, fluttery and insistent. you rushed down the two flights of stairs, your heart thumping louder with each step, and before you even reached the bottom, you could already hear his voice, deep and familiar, threading through the hallway.  

“no, the season’s over,” rafe was saying, his tone easy, patient.  

your mom hummed, and then—ohhh, drawn out like a realization had just dawned on her. “so, it’s like the seasons of the year? like winter, fall—”  

you nearly winced before you heard rafe chuckle, cutting in quickly, “no, no, no.” he sounded amused, not condescending, his usual charm at play. “it’s one season. the season runs from mid-august to mid-november. that’s when we play in the big arenas. the rest of the year is off-season training, then pre-season prep, and sometimes, we have non-official games against other teams.”  

“mm,” your mom nodded, absorbing the information. as you stepped up behind her, she turned, startled for a second before her face softened. “oh! i was just talking to rafe about his soccer schedule—it’s quite intensive, actually.” her expression shifted to that motherly concern she always wore when she thought you were stretching yourself too thin.  

you bit back a grin, already knowing what was coming.  

“it’s like what i tell y/n, you know?” she said, turning back to rafe, who raised his brows, clearly entertained. “always with her head buried in those books. i keep telling her, anything with ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ in front of it is bad. too much studying, and her little head might break.” she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “i worry—”  

“okay, mhm, i know, mom. i know,” you interjected, nodding quickly as you looped an arm through hers, gently steering her toward the living room before she could launch into another full speech.  

rafe, for his part, was valiantly holding back a laugh, his lips twitching as he watched you usher your mom away. you shot him a look, but the fondness in his eyes made your stomach flip.

“your mom complaining because you study too much? that’s unheard of.” rafe teases the moment you step back into the foyer, an embarrassed smile tugging at your lips.

“my mom is unheard of,” you correct, but the words barely register as you take him in. he looked good. he always did, but tonight—tonight he looked unfairly good. black cargos, a deep green sweater snug against his frame, the edge of a white shirt peeking out beneath it. his hair, effortlessly tousled in that way that made him look like he had just rolled out of bed—but you knew better. he did that on purpose.

before you can say anything else, he hooks a finger into the hem of your shirt, tugging you forward. you don’t resist, smiling as the space between you vanishes.

“hi,” you murmur, tilting your chin up as his hand cups your face, thumb brushing featherlight over your cheek.

“hey,” he breathes back, leaning in—so close you can almost taste the mint on his breath. but just as his lips are about to touch yours, he stills.

his voice drops to a whisper. “your sister is staring at us.”

your eyes snap open in horror. mortified. and annoyed.

sure enough, when you turn your head, there she is, standing in the hallway like a tiny executioner, arms crossed, smirk sharp.

“take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you mock, throwing her own words from this morning back at her.

without a beat of hesitation, she pulls out the little flip phone your dad gave her.

“oh my god! don’t actually take the picture!” you gasp, exasperated. behind you, rafe’s quiet chuckle vibrates through your back.

she doesn’t even acknowledge you, just huffs, arms crossing tighter. “dad!” she calls out, voice ringing through the house. “y/n won’t let me take a picture of her and rafe kissing!” she storms off.

you squeeze your eyes shut, dying inside, but rafe only laughs again. the sound is warm, reassuring—just like the way his arms slip around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

“you look pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your shoulder, lingering. “and you smell good.” his mouth trails higher, ghosting over your neck, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

your fingers tighten in his sweater as you exhale, tilting your head just enough to capture his lips in a soft, fleeting kiss. “thank you.” your voice is quieter now, just for him.

you pull back slightly, hands drifting to his shoulders as you study him again. “hmm…” your grin curves slow, playful. “you look nice, but i still can’t tell where we’re going from this outfit.”

he smirks, leaning down for another kiss, this one deeper, slower. when he pulls back, his voice is lower. “that’s kind of the point with surprises.”

you laugh softly as he grabs the duffel bag from your hands.

“we should get going.”

you nod, stepping away. “yeah, i just need to say bye to my parents. i’ll be right out.” you’re already turning when he murmurs his agreement, stepping out the front door.

inside, you find your parents in the living room. your mom is braiding your sister’s hair, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

“hey, i’m heading out. i’ll see you guys tomorrow after school?”

your mom glances up, eyes sweeping over you like she’s checking for something. “you don’t have a thicker sweater? it’s quite cold.”

“it isn’t that cold, she’ll be alright,” your dad interjects, offering you a thumbs-up. “just text us when you get to hazel’s, alright?”

you nod quickly, then turn back to your mom. “i’ll take my good coat, and worst case, i’ll ask rafe for a sweater.” you offer her a reassuring smile.

she studies you for a beat longer, then softens, giving you a warm nod. “okay. have fun.”

you turn on your heel, snatching your coat from the wall hook in one fluid motion before stepping outside. the crisp air rushes to greet you, cool against your flushed cheeks, curling around your skin like a whisper of excitement. the door clicks shut behind you, sealing away the warmth of inside, but you don’t mind—not when rafe is here, waiting.

he leans against his car, fingers idly playing with his keys, the metal glinting under the dim glow of the streetlights. he’s distracted, his head tilted down, but the second you step out, he pauses. his eyes find yours instantly, scanning your face, his lips parting just slightly. “all good?” his voice is gentle, edged with something soft, something careful.

you nod, unable to contain the giddy energy bubbling inside you. your feet carry you to him quickly, almost skipping, like a child running toward something they’ve been waiting all day for. “all good, good, good.” you beam up at him, stretching onto your toes to press a quick, eager kiss to his lips.

his chuckle is quiet, warm, but his arms instinctively settle around your waist, keeping you close. “you’re happy,” he observes, amusement laced in his voice.

your grin widens as you nod. “i’ve got every reason to be.” the words are as much for him as they are a reminder to yourself.

his nose brushes against yours, the smallest touch, but it sends a shiver down your spine. “i love seeing you smile,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

and because it’s him, because it’s always him, you smile even more. “i love you.”

his forehead rests against yours, his eyes locking onto yours like they hold the whole world inside them. “i love you too, baby.”

the drive to your destination is both too slow and far too fast, stretching time and collapsing it all at once. you want to savor every second, but you also ache to get there, wherever there is.

every car ride with rafe is something special. even the short ones, when he’d drop you off at the retirement home, where you’d linger in his car long after he had already parked, just talking, stretching the moment, neither of you wanting to leave, not ready to say goodbye. but the long ones? those were the best. time felt slower then, like the world outside the car didn’t matter, like all that existed was the steady hum of the engine, the soft music threading through the speakers, and the effortless conversation between you.

talking with rafe was easy. being with him was easy. you were always full of things to say, stories to tell, and he was always ready to listen, to laugh, to add his own thoughts like your words were puzzle pieces he was eager to fit together. the soft melody playing in the background only made it all feel more domestic, more right, like something you could do forever.

“remember when we were at the beach, and you said you should have more fun?” he asks suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of conversation.

you nod, thinking back to that day, the way you had sighed and confessed it like it was a secret. “yeah. this is something fun?”

he grins, nodding. “it is.”

your mind spins with possibilities. “is it…” you pause dramatically, narrowing your eyes at him, “roller skating?”

his laugh is easy, shaking his head. “you already guessed that one.” he tilts his head toward the windshield. “we’re almost there, though.”

your gaze follows his, and in the distance, bright lights glow against the night sky, unmistakable and familiar. your heart stutters.

“the fair!” you nearly scream, your excitement bubbling over into your voice. you turn to him, wide-eyed. “oh my god, i haven’t been back in years. i never—”

“find the time?” he finishes smoothly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

you nod, eyes shining. “thank you, thank you!” the words spill out as you grab his face, pressing frantic kisses all over his cheeks, his nose, anywhere you can reach. he just laughs, letting you, his hands resting on your waist.

“this is gonna be so fun.” you bounce slightly in your seat, your gaze snapping back to the road, watching as the fair grows closer, the colors sharpening, the lights glittering. anticipation buzzes under your skin. “i hope you’re ready to spend the next fifteen hours here, because i am not leaving until we’ve played every game. oh! we have to go on the ferris wheel.” you turn back to him, eyes pleading. “and we have to do the duck fishing game! a lot of people find it kinda boring, but i always loved it as a kid. you get fun prizes!" you ramble, the memories flooding back, making you smile at the thought of it all.

"anddd!" you continue, as rafe parks the car and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, "we can do the can knockdown and the basketball shootout! though i’m not very good at that..." you tilt your head, biting your lip.

"basketball shootout? that’s my game," rafe says, his tone teasing yet reassuring. "don’t worry, i'll show you how to score." a grin spreads across your face, and you can’t help but lean in, kissing him again, your lips lingering against his, sharing a moment of warmth.

when you step out of the car, rafe briefly checks his parking, but you're too eager to wait. you tug gently at his hand, your excitement bubbling over. "okayyy! let’s go!" you urge, practically bouncing on your toes.

"okay, someone’s excited," rafe murmurs with a smile, pulling you close, his arm sliding around your shoulder as you both start walking toward the fair, the lights ahead like a dream come to life.

the fair was alive with energy, a constant hum of voices blending with the sounds of laughter and music. the air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn, and you could feel the vibrant pulse of excitement as people swarmed the grounds. scattered among the crowd were a few familiar faces from school, most of them nodding or waving at rafe from a distance, though there were one or two who actually stopped to chat with him for a moment.

you dove into the carnival games, clearly more excited than anything else. your enthusiasm was contagious as you breezed through everything, from the ring toss and pick-a-duck to the basketball shootout, can knockdown, and the bb gun shooting booth. you even tried your hand at the hammer strength test and the wheel of fortune. each game offered a prize, and by the time you were done, you had racked up so many stuffed animals that rafe had to make a quick trip to his car to stash a couple in the backseat. you kept only the one he won for you, clutching it close as if it were a prized possession.

"i’ve got a perfect name for him," you grinned when rafe returned, slipping his hand into yours. you hugged the bear tight to your chest.

"yeah?" he asked, a curious glint in his eyes.

"rafe jr!" you exclaimed, your face lighting up with mischief.

rafe paused, turning to look at you with a playful smile. "he’s your son. isn’t he adorable?" you ask him.

"i think he’s our son," rafe said, his tone teasing but warm.

you hummed thoughtfully, "yeah, from nine a.m. to ten p.m., he can be our son. but at night, he’s all yours. i need my eight hours of sleep," you joked, and rafe gave you a mock disapproving look.

"unbelievable," he muttered, feigning indignation as he took the bear from you. "give me my son. you don’t even deserve him," he laughed, shaking his head as you giggled.

"let’s do the mirror palace," rafe said suddenly, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the next attraction.

"oh, no," you groaned, a playful whine creeping into your voice. "i suck at mazes. do you know how many bruises i've gotten because of this place?" you complained as he led you into the line. he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you close.

"you were probably between six and ten years old the last time you were here," he teased, his lips brushing your shoulder. "but don't worry, we’ll stick together. i’ll make sure we get out without any bruises."

you couldn’t help but smile at his reassurance, finding comfort in his presence. "okay," you agreed, your voice soft. "can we do the ferris wheel too?" you whispered, hopeful.

he gave you a tender smile and nodded. "we’ll do the ferris wheel, baby," he whispered back, his voice low and soothing as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. you smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of his affection, and he kissed you again, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away.

the line for the maze isn’t long, and rafe makes the wait feel like nothing at all. "hey, two tickets, please," he says, voice low but casual as he pulls his wallet out, handing over a stack of bills. the cashier, with a soft smile, takes them, passing back two tickets with practiced ease. "here you go," she says, her tone polite but robotic, "no running and no backtracking. have fun." the words sound like a rehearsed mantra, something she'd said to every other person before.

"no backtracking?" you ask, your voice tinged with nerves as rafe laces his fingers through yours, pulling you toward the entrance. "what if we get lost? what if we—"

"baby, we won't get lost," he laughs, that deep, confident sound that always manages to settle your racing thoughts. he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, the warmth of his lips grounding you. "this is a game for little kids. we’ll make it, no problem." you can’t help but smile, knowing he’s probably right. you nod, taking another step forward into the maze, the twisted corridors pulling you further in.

the maze is oddly quiet, aside from the occasional echo of laughter or giggling in the distance. the floors beneath your feet are dotted with glowing lights that form shifting patterns, while above, the ceiling is impossibly high—so high that you can't quite make out its end, thanks to the mirrored surface reflecting everything around you. it all feels like a strange dream, the kind where you’re falling endlessly but never quite hit the ground.

"god, this is so weird," you mutter, as rafe gently tugs you back just in time to avoid you running into yet another mirror. "i swear, we’ve been down this hallway already." you stop in your tracks, scanning your surroundings. rafe continues walking, but his hand, still clutching yours, halts him after a few steps.

"we haven’t been down this hallway yet," he says, looking over his shoulder at you. "i’d know." his tone is teasing, but you can’t help but raise an eyebrow.

"all the hallways look the same," you protest, "how would you know?"

"i’m a pro at this," he grins, tugging you closer. "you just don’t believe me." his hands settle on your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt. "or trust me," he murmurs, lips barely grazing your ear as he pulls you even closer.

"i’m too young to die, and i can’t die in a maze, rafe," you whine softly, your voice barely audible. he chuckles, the sound warm against your skin.

"don’t be whiny," he teases, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before you can even respond. your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

"i’m not whiny…" you protest, though the words are muffled as his breath fans across your lips. your eyes flutter closed, and you exhale softly, the warmth of his presence overwhelming in the best way.

"really?" rafe’s voice is low and teasing as his lips brush against yours, barely making contact. "because you sound pretty whiny to me." his hands slide up your back, sending a chill through your spine as his lips trace the curve of your jaw. he pulls you flush against him, his body pressing into yours with a teasing urgency.

"rafe…" you sigh, words getting caught in your throat. you want to beg him to kiss you, to press you up against one of these endless mirrors and kiss you until you're breathless, but somehow, the words won’t come. instead, you lean into him, your lips chasing his in desperate need.

"yeah, pretty girl?" rafe’s voice is rough, husky, and it makes your knees feel weak. your heart races in your chest as you try to form a coherent thought, but all you can focus on is him. his presence. the heat between you. your lips are barely a breath away, and you lean in, chasing him as your fingers tangle in his hair.

he pulls away just enough for you to feel the loss, his lips brushing against your skin. "tell me," he insists, his voice barely a whisper, but it carries an urgency that makes your breath catch. he kisses everywhere but your lips, trailing soft, teasing touches along your jaw and neck. his nose skims your skin, the sensation making your body shiver.

"want you to kiss me…" you manage to murmur, almost begging, your hands tightening in his hair. rafe hums, the sound vibrating through your chest.

"wasn't too hard now, was it?" he whispers, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing mockery of what you’ve been yearning for. and before you can respond, his lips crash against yours. it’s frantic, hungry, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you. you’re pushed up against the mirror, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

his hands find their way to your waist, pressing you harder against him as his tongue slips into your mouth, coaxing a soft gasp from you. the kiss deepens, and it’s no longer just a kiss—it’s consuming, overwhelming, a blur of heat and touch. the world fades away, and all you can think about is rafe. his lips. his hands. him.

the kiss drags on, relentless, until you’re both left gasping for air. rafe pulls back slightly, brushing his lips against yours with a soft smile. "don’t think that’s ever gonna get old," he murmurs, his voice low and satisfied. he takes your hand, tugging you along deeper into the maze.

eventually, though, he does get you both out. you’d almost lost hope twice, ready to scream for help, but somehow, you made it out together.

with his hand nestled in yours, fingers laced together like a quiet promise, you wandered through the fair, the golden glow of string lights casting soft halos over the crowd. laughter and the distant chime of game bells filled the air as you played a few more rounds, the scent of caramel and fried dough clinging to the night. finally, you reached the ferris wheel, its towering silhouette outlined against the deep blue sky.  

"line's a little long," rafe noted, eyes flicking toward the slow-moving queue stretching toward the ticket booth. he exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "i'm gonna head to the food stand and grab us something small while we wait. that okay?"  

you nodded quickly. "okay."  

he leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against your lips before you could say anything else. you caught his sleeve as he pulled away, adding, "can you also get me some water?"  

"mm, be right back," he murmured, squeezing your fingers before slipping into the crowd.  

left alone, you took the moment to respond to a few messages, the ferris wheel’s bright lights reflecting in your screen. the line inched forward, and just as you pocketed your phone, rafe reappeared, pressing a warm pretzel wrapped in a napkin into your hands.  

"here," he said, and you quickly took a bite, the buttery salt melting on your tongue.  

"you didn't get anything?" you asked, noticing he only held your bottle of water and a can of coke.  

"not hungry enough for anything right now," he shrugged, tucking his arm around your shoulder as the line moved forward again. without a second thought, you held up your pretzel to his lips.  

he grinned and took a bite, murmuring a muffled, "thanks," as he chewed. you smiled and leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.  

at the register, rafe pulled out his wallet, handing over cash for two tickets. standing closer to the wheel now, he tilted his head up, studying it. "jesus," he muttered under his breath. "when you're this close, it’s really high..."  

you grinned, nudging him. "got a little fear of heights you forgot to mention?"  

he rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "no fear of heights," he countered, feigning nonchalance. "just didn’t think it’d be this tall."  

when the attendant swung open the little cabin door, rafe let you step in first before sliding in beside you. the seat was softer than expected, and as the wheel began its slow ascent, he draped an arm around you, settling comfortably.  

"you can see the whole island from the top," you mused, eyes sparkling as you glanced at him.  

rafe smirked. "yeah?"  

"mm-hmm," you hummed, then added mischievously, "and don’t worry—it goes reallll slow."  

he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "i’m not scared of heights," he insisted.  

"uh huh." you shrugged, taking another bite of your pretzel.  

the cabin continued its gentle climb, and a small window near the side caught your attention. curiosity got the best of you, and before rafe could react, you popped your head out for a better view. the wind brushed against your face, cool and sweet, but before you could even take it all in, rafe's hand was gripping your waist, tugging you back in with a firm urgency.  

"okay, that's enough," he muttered, brows drawn together, his jaw tight.  

you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as he shot you a glare that wasn’t nearly as serious as he wanted it to be.  

if he wasn’t so tense, you might’ve asked to go again. but seeing the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his grip on you lingered even after the moment had passed, you decided against it. you’d spare him—for now.

ooh! a photobooth!" you yell out, excitement bubbling over as you grab rafe’s hand and pull him toward the big red box in the distance. the glossy surface gleams under the carnival lights, and you practically bounce on your feet as you take in the example pictures displayed on the side. “look at this! i think it’s new…” your fingers trail over the smooth panel, eyes scanning the details. before you can even turn to ask rafe if he wants to take some, he’s already ducking inside, reaching back to tug you onto his lap with effortless ease.  

“let’s see…” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he scrolls through the options on the screen. you pull the small curtain shut, enclosing the two of you in the intimate space, the air thick with anticipation. “black and white or color?” rafe asks, his chin resting on your shoulder, voice low and unhurried. you tilt your head in thought before deciding, “uhh… black and white.” the choice feels right, timeless. you fish out a couple of coins from your pocket, sliding them into the slot with a soft clink. 

“okay, ready?” rafe asks, his blue eyes flickering with amusement as he watches you. you nod, grinning. but then a thought crosses your mind, and you blurt out, “wait, how many does it take?”  

“four, i think,” rafe replies just as the first flash goes off. instinctively, you stick your tongue out, only realizing after that your hair is a mess. laughter spills from your lips as you quickly try to smooth it down, but rafe is faster—his fingers weave through the strands, gently fixing it as the countdown begins again.  

“oh, god, the countdown is so fast!” you squeal, both of you scrambling to pose, but it’s useless—you end up just laughing at each other, faces flushed with amusement.  

“that one is cute. look at your smile,” rafe grins, tilting his head to study the preview. your cheeks warm at his words, a touch of shyness creeping in. rafe notices, his own smile softening before he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek just as the third picture snaps.  

the final countdown begins, and rafe’s fingers—gentle yet firm—grasp your chin, turning your face toward him. “last one,” he murmurs, a teasing glint in his eyes. you don’t hesitate. instead, you wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him in, lips meeting his in a kiss just as the last flash goes off.  

when you pull away, rafe chases your lips for a second, stealing another soft kiss before finally letting you slide off his lap. you push the curtain open, stepping out into the cool night air, the distant hum of carnival rides and laughter filling the space around you.  

seconds later, the photo strip slides out from the machine. you grab it eagerly, holding it up. “they came out so cute! look!” you beam, showing rafe as he steps beside you.  

his gaze flickers over the strip, a small smile tugging at his lips. “they did. the black and white looks good,” he agrees, his fingers effortlessly intertwining with yours as you both start walking again, your eyes still fixed on the little captured moments.  

they were perfect.

"i had so much fun, thank you for bringing me here," you say, glancing at rafe as the two of you walk through the parking lot, the cool night air settling over your skin. the distant hum of traffic, the flickering neon signs, the soft scuff of your shoes against the pavement—it all feels like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.  

"i’m happy you liked it," rafe replies, his voice carrying a certain secrecy that immediately piques your curiosity. "but the date’s not over yet."  

you blink at him, lips curling into a smile. "it’s not?"  

he shakes his head, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "nope. one more surprise. now get in." he nudges you playfully, holding the passenger door open like the perfect gentleman he pretends not to be.  

your heart flutters as you slide inside, excitement buzzing through you despite the dull ache creeping into your feet. the night is stretching on, dark and velvety, but instead of feeling tired, you feel alive, giddy with the thought that the evening isn’t over yet.  

"can i try to guess this one?" you ask the moment you buckle in, eyes gleaming with anticipation.  

rafe chuckles, shaking his head as he starts the car. "you know, it wouldn’t kill you to let it be a surprise. ever heard of ‘curiosity killed the cat’?"  

"and what brought it back?" you counter smoothly, neatly tucking the photobooth pictures into your bag. "the truth."  

he scoffs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. "even if i gave you hints, you’d still be terrible at guessing."  

your mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. "no! your hints just suck!"  

"oh, my hints suck?" he laughs, shooting you a knowing look. "i literally said you might walk away with some prizes, and you thought i was taking you to a casino."  

you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile stretching across your face. "it was a solid guess! a casino is a place where you can win things!"  

"try thinking about why i asked you to bring warm pajamas."  

you pause, tilting your head as you study him. he’s taking you somewhere cold, that much is obvious—but where? and why?  

the rest of the ride is spent grilling rafe, who remains infuriatingly tight-lipped, dodging every one of your guesses with a smug grin. the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and red, and eventually, the car rolls to a stop near the docks.  

you step out, scanning your surroundings. the air is thick with the scent of salt and freshly grilled seafood, the restaurants nearby buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. but none of this explains why he told you to bring warm pajamas.  

he takes your hand and leads you past the restaurants, past the shops, past everything—until you’re stepping through a smaller, tucked-away entrance that spills out onto the docks, where at least fifty boats are lined up in neat rows.  

"are we getting on a boat?" you ask, glancing at him in surprise.  

he still doesn’t answer. just pulls you along, his grip firm but gentle.  

"rafe, i—"  

the words catch in your throat.  

because suddenly, you see it.  

a boat, different from all the others, its edges wrapped in warm golden lights that twinkle against the dark water. flower petals are scattered along the deck like something out of a dream. a table is set for two, draped in crisp white linen, with two gleaming cloches covering the plates beneath. and above it all, the sky is painted in breathtaking shades of pink and lavender, the last remnants of the sunset bleeding into the horizon.  

you don’t move. you don’t breathe.  

rafe steps onto the boat first, setting the bags down before turning back to you, his expression softer now, almost nervous. he holds out a hand. "c’mon."  

your fingers tremble as they slip into his.  

"rafe," you whisper, voice barely above the lapping of the waves, already feeling the sting of tears gathering behind your eyes.

rafe reaches behind you, fingers brushing against the back of the chair as he grabs something—then, turning back to you, he reveals a bouquet of flowers.  

"before you say anything, i just need to do this," he murmurs, voice quieter now, as he hands them to you.  

your hands tighten around the bouquet instinctively, but you barely register the softness of the petals, too caught up in the way his eyes flicker, how his throat bobs as he swallows.  

"there's a note inside," he continues, rubbing the back of his neck as if he's trying to steady himself. "i wasn’t sure if i’d be able to say what i needed to say, so i wrote it down. but now that you’re standing right in front of me..." he hesitates, glancing down at the bouquet, then back at you. "i think i want to read it to you."  

your breath catches.  

he reaches into the bouquet, pulling out a small, neatly folded note, his fingers careful as he smooths it open. the sun is dipping lower, casting everything in gold and amber, and for a moment, you just watch him. the glow of the fading light makes his features impossibly soft, the strands of his tousled hair illuminated like something out of a dream.  

his eyes scan the paper, then flicker up to you. he exhales sharply.  

"god," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head slightly.  

your brows pull together. "you don’t have to—"  

"no, no," he interrupts quickly, waving a hand. "it’s not that. it’s just... you—" he exhales again, almost frustrated with himself. "you look really good right now. i can’t think straight."  

your heart stumbles over itself.  

heat spreads across your cheeks, and you bite back a grin, stepping closer to him. "you’re awful."  

"i’m awful?" he scoffs, tilting his head at you, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "you’re the one over there, completely wrecking my concentration."  

his voice is soft, teasing, and the way he’s looking at you—like there’s no one else in the world—makes your chest ache. without thinking, you rise onto your toes, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss.  

he kisses you back, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. but as soon as your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, he pulls away with a pointed look.  

"see?" he murmurs, shaking his head in mock exasperation.  

you throw your head back in laughter. "okay, okay! i’m sorry! you have my undivided, uninterrupting attention."  

his lips twitch into a smirk before he clears his throat, bringing his attention back to the note in his hands.  

his voice is steady as he begins to read.  

"last semester, our science teacher told us that romantic love activates the same brain regions as drug addiction—especially the dopamine reward system."  

he glances up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting like he already knows how silly he sounds. but he keeps going.  

"at the time, i didn’t think much of it. honestly, i probably forgot about it five minutes later. but a week after our first tutoring session, that random fact came rushing back. because by then, i wasn’t just falling for you—i was being consumed by you. every little thing you did, every quirk, every expression. the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something so intricate i could barely follow. the way you smiled. the way you blinked, even."  

he pauses, his jaw clenching for a second before he continues.  

"i couldn’t understand why i couldn’t stop thinking about you—why you had settled so deeply into my mind, in my bones, under my skin. and then, suddenly, i did. that fact from last semester snapped back into place."  

his voice is quieter now, more careful, like every word is something he needs you to hear.  

"you’re the first thought in my mind when i wake up and the last thing i think of before i fall asleep. you are my favorite part of every day."  

you feel your breath hitch, your hands tightening around the bouquet.  

"i will always feel sorry for anyone who never gets the chance to know you the way i do—to be wrapped in your kindness, to hear your laughter over and over, to know what your lips feel like, to be loved by you."  

his gaze flickers up to yours, a quiet intensity in his eyes.  

"you are extraordinary, and i know you’re going to go places neither of us can even dream of."  

he hesitates, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper slightly, like the words are heavier now.  

"if you’ll let me, i’d be honored to stand by your side for as long as you’ll have me."  

a beat of silence.  

"will you be my girlfriend?"  

you don’t realize you’re crying until you’re frantically wiping at your face, nodding—nodding so hard it almost makes you dizzy.  

"yeah?" rafe breathes, a laugh slipping from his lips as he pulls you in.  

"yes!" you cry, grinning through the tears. "are you serious?"  

his hands cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears as he shakes his head with a soft smile. "you can’t cry on our first date," he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.  

"you can’t make me cry on our first date," you sniffle, voice barely above a whisper.  

"touché," he murmurs.  

and then his lips find yours.  

the kiss is slow, unhurried—like he has all the time in the world. like he wants to take his time. his fingers slide into your hair, holding you close, and when you press against him, you don’t know if you want to smile or cry all over again.  

but you do know one thing.  

there is nowhere else you’d rather be.

rafe pulls away, his lips barely ghosting over yours as he exhales, his nose brushing against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. “let’s sit, yeah?” his voice is low, gentle, and you nod, but not before pressing the softest kiss against his lips. he smiles against your mouth, then steps back, pulling out your chair with an effortless sort of grace. you settle into the seat, placing your flowers carefully beside you, the delicate petals brushing against your arm.  

your arms tighten around yourself as you take in the scene before you—an intimate table set under the open sky, flickering candlelight casting golden hues across the linen, the sound of the waves lapping gently against the boat. it’s beautiful, breathtaking, and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. your throat tightens as tears well up, your voice trembling despite your best effort to steady it. “how did you plan this all in one day?”  

rafe’s brows knit together like the question itself is absurd, and he reaches across the table, his hand warm as it closes over yours. “one day?” he echoes, shaking his head, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “baby, i’ve been planning this for two weeks. three if you count the seven days straight i begged my dad for the boat.” he says it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most natural thing in the world to spend weeks making something perfect just for you.  

your breath stutters as you swipe at your damp cheeks with the back of your hand, overwhelmed. “t-this is…” the words get caught in your throat, and rafe watches you, his face soft with affection but laced with the slightest bit of concern.  

“baby.” he moves before you can blink, dropping to his knees beside your chair, his hands resting on your thighs as he looks up at you, all blue eyes and steady presence. “if i knew this would make you cry this much, i would’ve just taken you to mcdonald’s.” his lips twitch into a teasing grin, and the laugh that bubbles out of you is watery but real. you lean forward until your forehead touches his, exhaling shakily.  

“no, n-no, it’s perfect… i j-just…” you try to gather yourself, grounding yourself in the way his hands hold you like you’re something precious, something he never wants to let go of. you breathe deeply, eyes flickering between his. “i think i’ve been telling myself for so long that i didn’t want this—the romance, the grand gestures, all of it. convinced myself i didn’t need it, because it’s easier to not be disappointed by something when you’ve made yourself believe you never even wanted it in the first place. but now…” you swallow hard, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “this whole date, this entire day… it’s been incredible. and i can’t believe i let myself miss out on you for almost two decades.”  

rafe’s gaze flickers with something unreadable, something deep. he cups your face, tilting it ever so slightly. “i’m here now,” he murmurs, the words like a vow. “and i’m not going anywhere for at least another couple of decades.”  

he pulls you into his arms before you can respond, guiding you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. his fingers thread into your hair, grounding, soothing. “i’m sorry i’m such a mess,” you mumble into the warmth of his skin.  

“you’re my mess,” he murmurs, lips pressing softly against your temple.

it takes five tissues and a few deep breaths before you’re composed enough to properly sit down and eat. you lift the cloche, and immediately, the rich steam curls into the cool evening air. the scent hits you next—warm, savory, mouthwatering, like something fresh out of a five-star kitchen. your eyes sweep over the dish, taking in the careful presentation, the attention to detail. “this looks delicious…” your voice is tinged with awe as you glance up at him, suspicious. “who made this?” a part of you half-expects a chef to step out from behind the mast.  

rafe leans back in his chair, smirking. “i did.”  

you arch a brow. “no, you didn’t. you were with me all day.”  

his grin deepens as he watches your skepticism unfold. “where do you think i went after i left your house this morning?”  

you narrow your eyes, still not convinced. and he just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’d doubt him.

"i should probably explain how i planned all of this," he says, voice smooth, almost sheepish, like he's letting you in on some grand secret. you nod, twirling your fork into the soft, buttery pasta on your plate, waiting for him to continue.

"this boat is my family's, but really, it's my dad's. no one touches it without his permission, and he’s very… very particular about it." rafe exhales a small laugh, shaking his head as if recalling some past scolding. "but i wanted to do dinner here. thought it’d be more fun, more private. so i asked him—begged him, really—promised i wouldn't break anything, or at least, i'd try not to." his lips curve into a smirk before he leans in slightly, his voice dropping as if this is the part that matters most. "and finally, when i told him i really wanted to impress you… he said yes." he watches your face, gauging your reaction. "i think he likes you, which is a first."

your heart lightens, the weight of uncertainty easing just a little. his father likes you? you hadn’t been sure.

"really? he seemed a little…" you hesitate, searching for the right word.

"frigid?" rafe supplies, already nodding like he knew that’s what you were going to say. "yeah, he’s cold. has a hard time showing affection, all that shit. but he’s a good dad. we have our ups and downs, but he loves us, wants the best for us—most of the time." there's something almost distant in the way he says it, like he's repeating a fact rather than feeling it, but you don't press.

he exhales, shaking off the moment. "anyway, the plan was always dinner. but then, after i picked you up from the elderly home two weeks ago, we went to the beach, and you said you wanted to start having more fun." he glances at you, eyes twinkling under the warm glow of the string lights. "so i started thinking—what’s fun? i mean, dinner’s great, dinner and a movie is great, especially with you, but i wanted something more. i thought about a roller rink, ice skating, maybe an aquarium or the zoo. but the fair just felt… right. versatile, fun, a little chaotic."

you smile, warmth settling in your chest. all of those options would have been perfect, because they'd be with him.

"initially, everything that happened yesterday wouldn’t have happened," rafe admits, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his features. you nod, a little sad at the reminder.

"the plan was simple. you’d stay over at mine, we’d be lazy, stay in bed till noon. my parents and wheeze were coming back at two, so i figured i’d leave you with her for a couple hours. topper’s dad owns the yacht club right by the dock, so topper set it up so we could use their kitchen. i was gonna cook, come back, pick you up, take you to the fair, and text topper when we were close so he could go back, heat up the food, plate it here, and leave." rafe shakes his head, smiling at how much effort it had taken. "same plan, really, except we were at your house instead of mine. i cooked, picked you up, took you to the fair, texted topper fifteen minutes ago, he came, reheated everything, plated it, and left."

you stare at him, stunned. "jesus… that’s…" you start, grinning as you shake your head in disbelief.

rafe laughs, running a hand through his hair before picking up his fork. "yeah. and i hope you like it, because this is literally the only meal i can make."

you chew, smiling against your bite. "you know, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of time if you just ordered the food."

he shrugs, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. "i wanted to cook for you."

your heart stutters, just a little. "well, it’s really good," you admit, nudging his foot lightly under the table. "even if it’s the only meal you can make."

he grins. "better than nothing."

it took nearly two hours to finish eating, though neither of you minded. conversation flowed so easily, conversation leading to laughter, to teasing, to the occasional soft gaze that lingered just a little too long. the food sat half-forgotten between you, growing cold while you got lost in each other. the whole evening made you forget—truly forget—every dark cloud that had loomed over you in the past months. none of it mattered here. none of it existed. all that was real was this moment, the warmth of rafe's presence, the way he looked at you like nothing else in the world held his attention.  

after the last bite, rafe took the wheel, guiding the boat a little further out into the open water. not too far—just enough so the shore looked like something out of a dream, the golden glow of restaurant lights stretching across the waves, bars and shops humming with distant life. you curled up together on the bow, your head rising and falling with his steady breath, his arms wrapped securely around you. the throw blanket, already there like it had been waiting for this moment, draped over both of you. when you tilt your head up, you find his eyes already on you, like he had been watching you all along.  

"thank you for this," you whisper, voice barely louder than the gentle slosh of water against the boat. "this has been the most fun night." your eyes glisten in the soft light, emotions swelling in a way that makes your heart ache in the best way.  

"you don’t need to thank me," he murmurs, brushing his lips over yours, a fleeting, teasing touch. "i did it with pleasure. you’re my favorite person to be around, baby."  

your smile is small, but it holds so much, and you find his lips again, kissing him once, then again, and again, unable to stop yourself. "still gonna thank you," you breathe, nuzzling into him. "i would've been happy with just a mcdonald’s date, but you went the extra… extra mile. you didn’t have to do that."  

rafe scoffs, his face twisting in a way that tells you he hates the mere thought. "you’re too good for a mcdonald’s date," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his lips trail down your jaw, slow and deliberate. "you’ve gotta know your worth…" the words are a murmur against your skin, his mouth lingering along your jawline, up to your ear. his teeth catch your earlobe gently, the softest bite, and your fingers dig into his bicep instinctively.  

"please…" the word leaves you in a breath, but the way it sounds—soft, needy—makes rafe tense for a beat.  

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. you’re so close your noses brush, sharing the same air. he’s asking you something without speaking, his gaze searching yours. you nod, slow and certain, and then his lips are on yours, the kiss stealing the breath from your lungs as he eases you down onto the soft cushions beneath you.  

the kiss is dizzying, has your mind floating, thoughts scattering like grains of sand in the wind. rafe kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like tasting you is the only thing that makes sense. his hands are impossibly warm, feverish against your skin, and soon he’s caging you beneath him, pressing closer, deeper. his lips leave yours only to travel down your neck, and your breath stutters, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.  

"rafe…" his name is barely a whisper, a plea, as your hands tug at the fabric of his shirt. you need him closer.  

he doesn’t make you wait. his shirt is off in a second, discarded somewhere in the dark, and his hands skim the hem of your top, fingers toying with the fabric before he pauses. his gaze finds yours again, softer this time. "you’re sure?" he asks, voice quiet, careful.  

you nod, your hands sliding into his hair as you pull him in, kissing him slowly, deeply. "i’m sure," you murmur against his lips.  

he pulls your top over your head, tosses it aside like nothing else matters but this. his mouth is on your skin immediately, mapping you out with slow, careful devotion, like he has all the time in the world. he kisses down your neck, lingers there, like he wants to memorize the way you shudder beneath him. his lips trail lower, between your breasts, his tongue and teeth leaving red marks behind—deep, burning reminders that you’ll feel long after the night is over.

"god, you're so fucking beautiful," rafe groans as he unhooks your bra with a precision that should be concerning—but the thought barely forms before his mouth is on you, his lips wrapping around your nipple, and suddenly, you can’t think at all.

your breath catches in your throat, a soft, shuddering gasp spilling from your lips as heat shoots straight through you. your fingers tangle in his hair, instinct taking over as you pull him closer, urging him on. "oh… oh—" the sound escapes you in a breathless whimper, pleasure twisting sharp and sweet through your body. your free hand fists the throw blanket beside you, lips parting as your head tips back into the pillow. the sensation is overwhelming, toeing the line between pleasure and something almost too intense, too much—but you don’t want him to stop.

rafe switches between your nipples, sucking and teasing until they’re left swollen, aching, but before you can even process the sensation, he’s moving lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. the warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you, but your mind stays hazy, pliant, following wherever he leads.  

two firm taps against your thigh. "up," he murmurs, and without thinking, you obey, lifting your hips like it’s second nature. he strips you bare in one swift motion, your skirt and underwear slipping down and away before you can so much as blink. the cool air kisses your exposed skin, but the heat of rafe’s mouth follows a moment later, his lips dragging slow, purposeful kisses from your lower stomach downward, inching closer, closer—  

your breath catches. he pauses. his gaze flickers up to meet yours, something dark and unreadable swimming in his eyes. "tell me you want it."  

at first, the words sound like nothing more than a demand, thick with lust. but when you really look at him—when you see the way he holds himself there, waiting—you realize he’s asking for more than just permission. he’s asking for certainty.  

"i want it," you whisper, the plea slipping out without hesitation, breathy and soft. "please…"  

something shifts in his expression, something unreadable yet electric, and then he’s gone—no, not gone—he’s there, right there, between your legs, his mouth stealing the very breath from your lungs.

the moment rafe’s tongue drags through your folds, pleasure slams into you so hard your mind blanks. your hands fly to your mouth, muffling the moan that tries to rip free, but it does nothing to quiet the way your body trembles beneath him. his grip tightens on your thigh, firm and unyielding, holding you in place as his tongue plunges deeper, tasting you, savoring you like a starving man.

everything else fades—thoughts, time, reality—until the only thing left is sensation. his mouth. his tongue. the slow, torturous way he builds you up, pushing you higher, higher, until you’re on the verge of tears.

"rafe… rafee…!" his name tumbles from your lips in a soft, breathless cry, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, desperate for more, for anything, for everything. your back arches, fingers tangling in his hair, clutching tight like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.  

he doesn’t stop. not as your body trembles, not as pleasure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable. not as tears burn the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. he keeps going, tongue lapping and lacking along your sweet cunt, dragging you to the very edge of bliss until you’re trembling, right there, ready to break—  

and then he pulls away.  

"no… no, no—" the whimper leaves you before you can stop it, pure desperation twisting in your chest as your hands fumble down between your thighs, chasing the release he so cruelly denied. but before you can touch yourself, rafe tsks, catching your wrists with ease.  

"uh-uh," he murmurs, his voice thick with something dark and dangerous. still gripping your wrists, he rises to his knees, unbuckling his pants with deliberate slowness. the hunger in his eyes makes your breath stutter.

his bulge alone leaves little to the imagination, but when he finally pushes his pants down, your lips part slightly, breath hitching as you take him in.

you'd seen him before—felt him before, had his cock in your mouth, remembered how he'd stuffed your mouth, memorized the way he stretched your throat—but somehow, the reality of it fitting inside you hadn’t fully processed until now.  

your pulse quickens. there’s no way. no way in hell—  

but rafe is already leaning down, tilting your chin so your gaze locks with his and only his. his eyes are molten in the dim light, steady and unshakable as he brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of warmth. "trust me, yeah?" his voice is low, rough, but so, so gentle. "just gotta trust me… i’ll make you feel good, i promise." it's hard not to believe him.

your stomach flips, nerves twisting with something softer, something deeper. slowly, you nod, and rafe rewards you with a lingering kiss—soft, patient, meant to soothe.

as his lips trail down your jaw, your arms instinctively loop around his neck, pulling him closer. he keeps you distracted, kissing you deeply, pulling you under his spell as his hands guide your thighs apart.  

your breath stutters when you feel him there—thick and hot, his tip gliding through your slick folds, teasing, testing. your body tenses. "r-rafe…" you stammer, voice unsteady, eyes flying open to meet his.  

he’s already watching you.  

"you’re okay," he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss against your lips, his thumb stroking your hip. "you’re alright."  

then he’s pushing in, forcing your cunt to expand and take all of him and your eyes fill with tears.

your walls stretches around him, foreign and overwhelming, a gasp breaking free as you clutch at his hair, fingers curling tight. the stretch is slow, unrelenting, inch by inch as he sinks deeper, forcing you to take him, molding you to fit him.  

"breathe," he urges, his voice firm but soothing, and only then do you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale shakily, thighs trembling around his hips.  

"fuck," rafe rasps, his forehead nearly touching yours, breath warm against your lips as he sinks into you, slow but deep, stretching you, filling you completely. the moment he starts to move, sliding in and out of your slick, trembling heat, a shudder wracks through you, pleasure blooming so intensely it steals the breath from your lungs.  

your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clinging to his instinctively, overwhelmed by the sheer depth of sensation. "oh god—rafe, god—" his name spills from your lips in a broken sob, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, not from anything but the unbearable bliss of having him like this, of being his.  

you wrap your leg around his waist, and his body answers before his mind does, his hips rolling forward, pushing deeper, pressing impossibly close. a guttural groan rips from his throat, his hands gripping your hips like he never wants to let go. "fuck, baby," he groans, voice thick and ragged, "you feel so fucking good…"  

he thrusts into you again, and again, and again, each movement more intense than the last, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, as if you weren’t already his.

rafe’s fingers dig into your hips, gripping so tight you think you’ll wear his bruises for days, a mark of this moment, of him. his thrusts are relentless, slamming into you, pushing you higher, higher, until the pleasure is so consuming it’s nearly unbearable. the ocean roars around you, but it’s nothing compared to the symphony of moans and breathless cries spilling from your lips, to the desperate slap of skin against skin as he takes you apart piece by piece.  

he looks wrecked—utterly, beautifully ruined—his jaw clenched, eyes dark and hazy, drowning in lust, in you. "fucking christ," he grits out, voice wrecked, nearly a growl, his head tipping back as your walls flutter around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go.  

you can’t think, can’t form a single coherent thought beyond the white-hot pleasure slamming into your every nerve. he fucks you senseless, over and over, hitting that devastating spot inside you again and again until you’re sobbing, whimpering, utterly wrecked beneath him.  

"rafe… m’gonna— i can’t— n-need—" you babble, voice breaking, tears slipping down your cheeks as the pleasure coils tighter, unbearable, uncontrollable.  

"hold it," he pants, forehead brushing against yours, his own restraint fraying, his body trembling with the effort. you want to obey, want to listen, but you can’t—god, you can’t. "please… please!" your voice is nearly unrecognizable, high and desperate, trembling as he shifts, lifting your thigh higher, forcing himself even deeper.  

"just a little longer, babygirl," he rasps, mouth trailing over your parted lips, kissing you like he’s savoring your surrender. but you can’t kiss him back—you can’t do anything but take it, take him, take every last ounce of pleasure he gives you.  

"i c-can’t… can’t—!" your body is wrecked, overstimulated, pushed past the point of reason as he pounds into your already trembling, sore cunt.  

"that’s it," he groans, voice tight, desperate. "so fucking good, baby… doing so good for me." his rhythm falters, thrusts growing sloppy, more frantic, his control unraveling as he chases his own high.  

"cum, baby."  

his words crash over you like a tidal wave, and before you can even process it, you’re breaking—shattering—pleasure detonating through you so violently your vision goes white. your entire body trembles, clenches, your mind floating into oblivion as you come harder than you ever have, tears slipping from your lashes, lips parting in a silent scream.  

your heart is racing, hammering so wildly you think it might just burst right out of your chest.

rafe eases out of you carefully, and you wince at the overwhelming sensitivity, your body thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. his hands are on you instantly, soothing, tracing gentle circles along your waist as he watches you with quiet concern. "you good?" he murmurs, voice low, intimate, like it’s just the two of you in the whole world.  

even as exhaustion settles deep in your bones, as every muscle in your body hums with the ache of what you’ve just done, you nod. "that was…" you trail off, searching for the right words.

rafe’s lips twitch, but he stays quiet, waiting, his blue eyes filled with something unreadable. then, playfully, he tilts his head. "good..? bad..? overwhelming..? underwhelming..?" he teases, voice soft, coaxing, and that boyish grin—the one that always gets you—spreads across his face. even like this, damp skin glowing under the moonlight, hair a wild mess, he looks devastatingly beautiful.  

you smile, stretching out the anticipation before answering. "really, really, really…" you pause just to see him raise a brow at you. "good. like, seriously, mind-numbingly good."  

rafe chuckles, the sound warm and low, and he leans in to press the gentlest kiss to your lips. "yeah," he whispers against your mouth. "you did give me that impression."  

you laugh, giving his chest a weak shove, and he just grins, sinking down beside you with a deep, satisfied sigh. his arm curls around your waist, and instinctively, you tuck yourself against him, head resting over his heart, listening to its steady, soothing beat.  

a few beats of silence pass before he breaks it, voice amused. "you know there’s a bedroom down there, right?"  

your head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "rafe. are you serious?" disbelief laces your voice as you gesture to the makeshift bed and the throw blanket tangled around your legs. "we had sex here when there was a perfectly comfortable bed waiting right below us?"  

he’s already laughing, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders as he tugs you even closer. "but now you can say you’ve had sex under the stars," he offers with a smirk, like it’s the best selling point in the world.  

you roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile as you settle against him again. "yeah, that’s really something i’m gonna go brag about," you say dryly, and rafe chuckles, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.  

your heart swells, impossibly full, and when you lift your head, his lips graze yours, the touch so light it’s barely there. then, in the quiet, in the peace of the night, he whispers, "i love you…"  

you kiss his nose, his cheek, then his lips, slow and tender. "i love you too."

a.n —  they finally did it. YAY. i hope this was up to everyone's standards. more coming soon. leave a comment cause i rlly love to chit chat with y'all!

chapter index — next. chap

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