rae

you hadn’t spoken to him in two days. two full days and rafe cameron was losing his mind.

he leaned against the kitchen counter in the cameron house, arms crossed, watching you move around the room like he wasn’t even there. you grabbed a glass and filled it with water but walked right past him.

not a single glance.

“seriously?” rafe muttered. nothing.

you opened the fridge.

rafe pushed himself off the counter. “are you still doing this?”

silence. you grabbed a yogurt and shut the fridge door. rafe stepped in front of you before you could leave. you simply moved around him like he was a piece of furniture.

your boyfriend had no idea whether to laugh or cry but his jaw tightened. "you’re kidding me."

still nothing.

you walked toward the stairs.that’s when he finally snapped.“y/n.”

his voice was sharper now but you kept walking. rafe ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning toward you again. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

nothing. not even a glance over your shoulder. his frustration was starting to bleed into something else now.

“you yelled at me for three hours last week over the boat thing,” he said, following you into the living room. “but now suddenly you’ve got nothing to say?”

you sat on the couch and opened your phone. scrolled.

like he wasn’t standing right there. rafe stared at you. unbelievable.

“oh, so the phone gets your attention?”

no response. his jaw clenched. “y/n.” he all but barked.

nothing. he stepped closer. “y/n.”

still nothing. you shifted slightly on the couch and that was it. rafe walked over, grabbed your phone out of your hands, and held it above his head.

your head snapped up immediately. finally. he almost smiled.

“there she is.” you glared at him but you still didn’t speak.

rafe tilted his head and you reached for the phone. he held it higher. “uh-uh.”

you stood up, still silent, and tried to grab it again.

rafe stepped back, smirking a little now. “you gonna talk to me or just jump for it?”

he caught your wrist easily. the contact made both of you pause. his smirk faded slightly. “there it is,” he murmured. “that look.”

you yanked your wrist away and walked toward the stairs again.

rafe stared after you in disbelief. “you are unbelievable.”

you kept walking.

“y/n, seriously—”

nothing. again. he ran a frustrated hand over his face before following you upstairs. “this is ridiculous,” he said, trailing behind you. “you’ve been ignoring me for forty-eight hours.”

you walked into the bedroom and he leaned against the doorframe. “you’re really not gonna say anything?”

you sat on the bed. opened your laptop.

rafe laughed softly. “oh my god.” he pushed off the doorframe and walked over. “you know what? fine.” he stood directly in front of you. you kept looking pointedly at the screen and so he leaned down slightly, voice softening. “look at me.”

nothing.

rafe reached forward and gently closed your laptop. your eyes lifted immediately. there it was again. that glare. “hi,” he said quietly, almost boyishly.

you grabbed the laptop and reopened it.

rafe stared. then, slowly, he reached out and shut it again. “talk to me.”

nothing. his patience snapped. he grabbed your waist and pulled you toward him. not rough but just sudden. you made a small noise of surprise and his eyes lit up like he'd just won the lottery. “oh? you do make sounds.”

you shoved at his chest but he didn’t let go. his hands stayed firm on your waist. “c’mon,” he muttered. “this is getting ridiculous.”

you turned your head away. that was somehow worse because now he couldn’t even see your eyes.

rafe exhaled sharply. “i said i was sorry.” nothing. “like… four times.”

nothing. his grip tightened slightly. “y/n.”

still silence. for a second he just looked at you. the frustration in his expression slowly melted into something softer. more tired. “baby,” he murmured.

your jaw tightened slightly and he noticed.

“yeah, that one still works,” he said quietly.

you tried to step away but he didn’t let you. instead he pulled you closer. your chest bumping his. “you’re killing me, you know that?” silence. rafe leaned down slightly so he could catch your eyes. “i hate when you ignore me.” still nothing. his voice dropped lower. “makes me feel like i don’t exist.”

that made your expression flicker slightly. rafe noticed immediately. “there it is,” he said softly. he brushed his thumb along your side absentmindedly. “c’mon. yell at me if you want.”

nothing. he leaned even closer now. close enough that his voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“hit me. throw something. i don’t care.” your eyes flicked up to his. “just don’t pretend i’m not here.”

silence stretched between you.

his thumb kept moving slowly against your waist. almost unconsciously. “i hate it,” he admitted quietly. “makes me feel like you’re already gone.”

that finally cracked something. your lips parted slightly.

but before any words came out — rafe smiled faintly. “there we go.”

you immediately shut your mouth again. his smile widened just a little.

“too late,” he murmured. then he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

you shoved him back immediately. “rafe!”

he grinned. actually grinned. like a boy who had been told the moon was made out of cheese.

“finally.”

you glared at him. “you’re so annoying.”

he looked way too pleased with himself. “worth it.”

you crossed your arms. “i was ignoring you.”

“yeah,” he said. “worst forty-eight hours of my life.”

you rolled your eyes but the corner of his mouth lifted. because you were talking again. and to rafe cameron that meant he’d already won.

© bittersweetlyblue, do not copy, translate or edit my work as your own nor feed it into anything for your amusement.

The crisp autumn air at Hogwarts carried the scent of pumpkin pasties and something mulled as you made your way back to the Gryffindor common room after a long day of classes. It was your sixth year, and while the castle buzzed with the usual excitement— first-years getting lost in the shifting staircases, Peeves causing havoc in the corridors —your mind was firmly fixed on one thing: Fred Weasley and his self-proclaimed “bulk season.”

It had started over the summer at the Burrow, where Fred had decided that being the top Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team wasn’t enough; after a nasty loss to Hufflepuff right before the end of term, he felt he needed to become an absolute powerhouse.

“Gotta hit those Bludgers like a troll with a grudge,” he’d said with that signature wink, charming a set of dumbbells from old garden gnomes as you and Molly rolled your eyes at his boyishness.

"You're going to eat us out of house and home, boy," Mr Weasley had added, and he was right. By the time term started, he was already broader, his robes straining at the shoulders. To your disgust, you couldn't keep your eyes off him, and neither could the other girls.

You'd caught Parvati and Lavender just the other day commenting on "how good those Weasley twins looked": it sounded like they were hoping they could both take a twin each to the Yule Ball. Tough luck, you thought, Fred was all yours.

You pushed through the portrait hole, the Fat Lady grumbling about “evening loiterers,” and spotted him immediately. Fred was lounging by the fire with George, Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood and a handful of other Gryffindor players in their kits, discussing their latest training session. His crimson Quidditch sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they could bend iron, freckles dancing over the new swell of muscle that you swore had grown overnight. He caught your eye and grinned, shoving George further down the worn leather couch to make space for you.

“Evening, love! Come join us. We’re plotting how to hex Madam Hooch's broom,” he called, his voice as jovial and cheeky as ever.

You slid in beside him, greeting his friends. Your hand automatically resting on his thigh, you felt the solid quad beneath his trousers. Distractedly, you said, “sounds dangerous. Wouldn't like to get on Hooch's bad side, frankly."

George snorted from the floor where he'd been relegated by Fred, munching on a handful of Bertie Bott’s Beans. “As if that’s stopped us before. Besides, me and Freddie here are built like a brick wall now. We could just charge in and snap her broom right in two!”

Fred flexed his arm dramatically, the bicep peaking under his robes like a small mountain. “See, Y/N? Bulk season’s paying off. Eat big, lift big and...prank big," he grinned. He turned to you, eyebrows wiggling. “What do you think? Impressed yet?”

You swatted his arm, feigning not being impressed. "Don't be such a boy," you laughed. "Just don't outgrow your broom."

Lee laughed. “Not likely. Wood’s already frothing at the mouth about Quidditch practice. Thinks this year’s team is going to crush Slytherin, especially with clobbering Beaters like these two. Don't you, Oliver?" He prodded his friend with his foot.

Oliver grinned. "No doubt about it."

Fred puffed out his chest, which was noticeably thicker, the Gryffindor crest on his sweater stretching taut. “Damn right. I’ve been doing extra reps in the Room of Requirement. Transfigured a whole gym in there— barbells, pull-up bars.” He leaned in closer to you “You should come watch sometime. Or, y’know, to spot me.”

Your cheeks heated, but you played it cool. "Hardly my idea of a good time, watching you admire your own reflection," you laughed.

The next day, the Great Hall was alive with the clatter of silverware and the hum of morning chatter. You were midway through a stack of pancakes when Fred plopped down beside you, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, and what looked like half a loaf of bread slathered in butter. “Fuel for the day,” he announced, digging in with gusto.

Hermione, sitting across the table with a stack of books, raised an eyebrow. “Fred, that’s enough to feed a hippogriff. Are you trying to bulk up or to burst all your robes?”

“Both, Granger,” he replied through a mouthful, winking at you as you joined Hermione in rolling your eyes.

“Gotta keep up with those Bludgers. They’re getting cheekier every year.”

Ron, next to Hermione , eyed Fred’s plate enviously. “Blimey, share some? Mum’s care packages haven’t arrived yet.”

Fred shook his head, flexing his arm again for emphasis. “Sorry, mate. These gains don’t come cheap.” He turned to you, lowering his voice. “I could lift like five of you on one arm."

"I think I'll stick to just watching you play rather than becoming a weight, thank you, sweetheart," you replied, playfully.

"Suit yourself," Fred chimed.

Harry, sat on Fred's other side, chimed in. “Speaking of, Fred, you ready to smash some Bludgers my way this evening? Wood's got us running drills till 9pm. Just don’t aim for the Snitch—or me," he pushed his glasses up his nose a touch.

Fred grinned, slapping Harry on the back a bit too hard, making him wince and cough on his toast. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Potter. Though with these arms, I could probably knock Malfoy off of the stands.”

The Quidditch pitch was a whirlwind of activity that evening, the wind whipping through the goalposts as the Gryffindor team took to the skies. You bundled up in the stands, a Warming Charm from Hermione keeping the chill at bay. Your eyes were glued to Fred. He was a force on his broom, his Beater’s bat gripped in one large hand as he soared through the air. His Quidditch robes, usually loose, now hugged his broadened frame, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling with every swing.

“Watch this!” he shouted down to you during a break in drills, hovering mid-air. Oliver had released a Bludger, and Fred dove toward it like a hawk. With a mighty crack, he sent it hurtling toward a practice dummy at the far end of the pitch, splintering it on impact. The team cheered, George whooping from the other side.

“Show-off!” you yelled back, but your heart was racing. He looked invincible up there, all power and grace, his legs— thicker from squats and deadlifts —gripping the broom with ease.

He flew over to the stands, hovering just out of reach. “Impressed yet?” he called, sweat glistening on his forehead, making his freckles stand out.

You stood on tiptoe, pretending to inspect him. “I might be if you could do it a little more gracefully," you called back. You knew you were impressed: you just wanted to see him do it one more time.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Anything for you, love.” He zipped back into the fray, teaming up with George to deflect a pair of Bludgers aimed at Angelina Johnson. His swings were explosive, each one showcasing the new strength he’d built— biceps bulging, chest heaving.

By the end of practice, he was soaked, but buzzing with energy.

Afterward, as the team trudged back to the castle, Fred caught up to you on the path, slinging an arm around your shoulders. It felt like being wrapped in a solid but damp blanket. “So, how was the show? Rate my Beater skills on a scale of one to ‘I can’t keep my hands off you.’”

You slipped your hand under his robe, feeling the hard planes of his abs. “Definitely the latter. You’re like a walking statue...it’s distracting, actually. Not just for me; you've clearly caught the eyes of some other girls,” you huffed as his arm pulled you tight into his side.

He stopped walking when you said that, letting the team pass by so you could have a moment of privacy. Twisting you to face him, he said, “I'm not interested in other girls, love. I only want to distract you.” His hands cupped your face and he kissed your forehead. Suddenly, he lifted you without any effort onto a waist-high cobblestone wall, so that you were eye-level with him. “You know, I'm not just getting built for Quidditch. It’s for this too— scooping you up whenever I want.” He grinned and played with a loose strand of your hair, holding his broom upright against his side.

You crossed your legs below you, fingers tangling in his damp hair. “Might have to demand a private demonstration to prove your devotion," you hid your smile.

His lips brushed yours, teasing. “Deal. Room of Requirement after dinner? I’ll show you my full routine— push-ups, pull-ups, and whatever else you fancy.”

Back in the common room that evening, the fire crackled as you curled up together on an armchair built for one. Fred’s arm was around you, his hand absentmindedly flexing against your side. George wandered over, smirking. “Oi, you two, get a room. Or better yet, help us test these new Extendable Ears.”

Fred chuckled, not moving an inch. “Later, Georgie. Right now, I’m recharging with my favourite spotter.”

You nestled closer, tracing patterns on his chest. “I love this, you know. The bulk, the confidence… all of it.”

He tilted your chin up, eyes soft despite the smirk. “And you’re the reason I started. Love seeing that look in your eyes—like you can’t get enough.”

“I can’t,” you whispered, pulling him into a kiss that lingered until George threw a cushion at you both, groaning about “soppy romantics.”

Weeks blurred into a rhythm of classes, Quidditch, and ogling your boyfriend. Fred’s bulk season showed no signs of slowing: his appetite rivalled Hagrid’s; his workouts turned the Room of Requirement into a makeshift gym where you’d join him, spotting his bench presses and rewarding each set with a kiss. On the pitch he was a legend, Bludgers fearing his name as he protected the team with ferocious swings.

One stormy evening after a gruelling practice, you found him in the prefects’ bathroom (thanks to a sneaky password from George), soaking in the massive tub. Bubbles swirled around his broad shoulders, water glistening on his defined chest. “Join me?” he asked as you poked your head in, voice echoing off the tiles.

"I am not stripping off in front of Moaning Myrtle," you whispered as you approached, hoping she wouldn't overhear. Thankfully, it seemed she was off haunting another room.

Fred pouted. "Spoilsport. At least put your legs in."

You humoured him, peeling off your bottom-half before perching on the edge of the huge bath and slipping your legs in to the warm water. Clad in just your top-half and underwear, you let him wrap his sudsy arm around your lower legs as he rested his head against your knee. “How’s the bulk treating you today?” you asked, playing with his hair.

“Brilliant,” he murmured, mindlessly drawing circles on your skin under the water. “But nothing beats this. You, me...less than a normal amount of clothes.”

You laughed and ran your hands over his back, feeling every hard-earned muscle. “The way you own the pitch… it makes me feel like such a pervert," you groaned.

He kissed your knee, twisting around to look up at you. “Might have to make bulk season permanent. Anything to keep you looking at me like that.”

"I'd look at you like that either way, idiot," you grinned, splashing him with bubbles.

you enter the living room with a blank expression, trying to mask your laughter. rafe looks up from his phone, patting his lap for you to sit.

instead you sit beside him, leaving distance between the two of you. his eyebrows furrowed with confusion at your actions.

you don't stall any longer when you say, "i think we should break up."

"w-what?" he sputtered, tossing his phone elsewhere.

"i've been thinking about it for a while, and i don't really see us having a future." you pick at your nails, trying to avoid his gaze. "you should go."

you stood up, trying to make your way out of the living room, when he blocked your pathway.

without pressure or hesitation, rafe sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around your waist as an attempt to stop you.

"don't do this, baby," he pleads. "you don't mean it," shaking his head in disbelief at the situation.

you resist the urge to cradle his face when he mumbles into your palm. he presses his lips to trail kisses up your hand, stopping at your pulse point.

"please, i can't live without you," he trembled, eyes flickering around your features for a hint that you'd stop torturing him.

you try to move, but his grip on you tightens. "enough, rafe, let's just end it.

he grunts frustratedly as he rests his head on your thigh, a pathetic look swirling in his blue eyes. you almost called the prank there, but you pushed the final button.

"you need to go rafe, i'm not in love with you anymore." with those words the dam breaks.

tears like you've never seen before spill from rafe cameron. your words echo in his mind, only furthering the stream of tears. his shoulders shake as you feel him sob into your thighs, tears soaking your leggings.

he pulls away from you, eyes puffy, bloodshot as they brim with more tears. his blond strands were stringy from the sweat forming on his skin. his nose is red as he sniffles, voice cracking as he tries to speak.

"don't say that baby, please, i can't take this anymore," and your front collapses.

your lips immediately form into a pout as you hug him back. "it was a prank for tiktok, ray," you chuckle softly. "i was playing, i still love you."

he pulls away from you slowly, eyes blown wide. "you serious, you're not leavin' me?" you nod.

"i wouldn't dream of it," you tell him, placing a kiss on the crown of his head.

you feel the tension in his muscles releasing at your words. he falls silent, hugging your body tighter.

"It’s a placeholder," He murmured, running a thumb over the silver before letting your hand fall, walking into his closet. "So you know where you stand."

You were standing right there, leaning against the door frame, wrapped in one of his oversized graphic t-shirts, the scent of his expensive cologne clinging to your skin as you crossed your arms and legs. “And where exactly is that, Rafe?” You’d asked, the question light, but the anxiety in your chest was a heavy, twisting knot—tightening by the second.

He hadn't looked at you, not fully—just a brief warning glance over his shirtless shoulder. He was too busy finding the shirt he’d be wearing to the yacht club dinner—a dinner you certainly wouldn't be attending. Too public. Too...insinuating. "You're mine, Y/N. That's where you stand." He bit out, eyebrows furrowing as he pulled a shirt off of it’s hanger, threading his arms through.

Mine. That was it always was. You were his, undeniably, in the quiet darkness of the island, in the back of his precious truck, and on the pristine, white linen sheets of his bedroom. You were his when he bought you things—the ring, designer clothes you’d look at online, a pair of heels you’d only casually mentioned liking during a drive-by of a Charleston boutique. You were his when he took you out, but always to places that offered discretion— a remote dock on the marsh side of Figure Eight, his family’s private boat for a midnight cruise away from the prying eyes of the island, or a deserted stretch of beach you had to climb over a dune to reach.

The intimacy was total. 

The commitment was zero.

You were torn between two roads that you just couldn't decide on—one that took you down a long path of reason and self-respect, driven by your mind and what you knew was probably the right decision, and the other that kept you by Rafe’s side because of what you felt for him and what he claimed to feel for you.

IT WAS A TUESDAY AFTERNOON. You were supposed to be tidying up, but you were scrolling through Instagram instead, noticing the multi-colored ring around Rafe’s profile picture. Clicking on it, that familiar pit in your stomach began to stir—he was at a charity golf tournament, tagged in a story by a gorgeous girl, who was leaning far too close, her blonde hair brushing his shoulder as they laughed.

It was innocent enough, but you knew how other people viewed some things.

You shut the phone, huffing and closing your eyes. The platinum band suddenly feeling less like a promise and more like a shackle. You knew he loved you—or at least, he loved the raw, uninhibited part of him that you brought out, as he’d told you. 

You were his ‘light in the dark’ as he’d put it all those months ago. And it seemed like the dark was where he liked to keep you. 

Months of sneaking around left you daydreaming about the relationship you really wanted with Rafe—real, public dates. An instagram highlight dedicated to you. Silly pictures that you could post and tag each other in…

You didn’t like being in the dark.

That same night, Rafe picked you up in his truck. He took you to the fancier side of The Cut—a secluded, upscale seafood place that was popular with older folks but was far enough from the country club scene to ensure minimal recognizable faces.

During dinner, he was all charm. Sitting across from him, he reached out to entangle your hand with his own, his eyes focused only on you. He asked about your college classes, leaned over to kiss you, and even fed you from his plate. It was one those moments where you acted like a couple, with no reservations.

When he looked at you like that, when his focus narrowed down to your existence alone, it was easy to forget the external noise.

...But the noise always found you.

It was on the way back from the restroom that you paused by the bar to adjust your dress, Rafe settling the bill with your hostess at the front. 

You heard his name first, followed by a low, gossipy giggle.

"I saw Rafe in here," One girl whispered to her friend. They were seated at the bar, clearly tipsy. “Rafe Cameron.” She fawned, despite her wearing an engagement ring the size of a gumball, sipping a bright pink martini.

"Oh my God, where?” The other, younger girl whipped her head around the restaurant, nearly falling off of her barstool before turning back to her friend. “He’s so damn hot. You know they say he's got issues, but…fuck it, that’s a risk I’m willing to take," The other girl replied, giggling.

"He's over there," The first girl nodded toward where Rafe was talking to the hostess, pulling his card out to hand to her with a polite smile. "Oh, but waittt,” She pouted drunkenly. “He’s with that girl. Y/N, right? Poor thing. She looks... serious."

The younger girl snorted. "Seriously delusional. Rafe doesn’t do serious. I’m pretty sure they’re just hooking up.” She explained, sipping from her glass. “He’s a rich ass twenty year old guy. He probably showers her with everything she could possibly think of to keep around but, trust me, he’s not going to show her off to his friends or anything. She doesn't fit. Why do you think they’re all the way out here?” She scoffed. “Trust me, I dated his friend. He tells Rafe everything. She's probably just a thrill. You know how guys like their secrets."

The words hit you with the force of a rogue wave, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Were they wrong? Screw it. Even if they weren’t, what gave them the right to analyze your relationship for entertainment?

Clenching your jaw, you continued walking through the bar area to get to Rafe, but not before you not-so-accidentally bumped into both women, their drinks spilling down the length of their expensive dresses.

“What the hell?!”

“Dammit!”

They exclaimed, standing from their seats with their hands up in shock—the nearby guests turning towards the commotion.

“Oh, I am so sorry.” You feigned innocence, both women looking up at you with fury in their gazes before seeming to realize just who you were, their faces falling. You shot them a pity, lopsided smile. “Good thing it wasn’t wine.” You teased, voice low to ensure that those two were the only ones to really catch your words. “It should dry soon, ladies. Chin up. You look too…serious.”

You scoffed with a bright smile before walking to meet Rafe where he was standing, holding your jacket.

“Everything okay?” He asked, turning to look down at you.

You smiled up at him. “Everything’s fine. Just a small mishap.” You assured, pecking him on the lips. “Ready?” You whispered, trying to smooth the sudden, ugly green filter that had fallen over your vision.

"C’mon,” He nodded, his smile devastatingly handsome as he helped you put your coat on, throwing an arm over your shoulder and guiding you out of the restaurant as you shot the pair of women a glare over your shoulder on the way out.

THE NEXT WEEK, it got worse. You ran into Rafe at the beach when you’d decided to chill with one of your close friends. You didn’t know he’d be there, his only text that morning being that he’d be ‘out with the guys’.

There was a group of girls around him, all tanned legs and expensive bikinis. He was leaning back in his beach chair, one arm draped over the back, radiating that effortless, privileged charm.

The girls were beautiful, giggly, and all over Rafe and his friends. Some blonde was in Topper’s lap, twirling her fingers in his hair. Another—beautiful, brown skin and bouncy curls—was dragging Kelce to the shore.

And the other—a striking brunette with an aggressive laugh—was standing so close to Rafe, she may as well have been standing in his lap. Rafe didn't push her away, but he also didn’t pay her much mind or protest as she teased him, stealing the sunglasses off of his face. In fact, he looked up at her, the corner of his mouth curving into that trademark smirk. 

The shared look, the way his gaze lingered—it was unmistakable.

He was flirting back. Hard.

That smirk, the one he usually reserved for you when you were alone, was now being offered to a pretty girl in a pool of sunlight. You felt a physical sickness in your stomach. 

Needless to say, you didn’t stay at the beach long. You’re friend, one of the few people who knew about you and Rafe and whatever the two of you were, dragging you out of there and offering to go somewhere else.

But it was clear that there was no salvaging the day and you simply asked her to drive you home, staring at the platinum ring on your finger the entire ride there. 

LATER THAT EVENING, you were curled up in your bed when Rafe texted, his specific text tone ringing out in the silence of your room. You stared at the message for five minutes before replying. 

Some part of you felt a thrill of power, small and fragile, but yours. He was used to having his way, used to you being available at the snap of his fingers, or the tap of a text. But he wasn’t getting that now. You were actually pulling back this time.

Ten minutes later, he called. 

You let it ring twice before answering, trying to keep your voice even.

"What's your deal?" His voice was low, laced with annoyance, but also a hint of frustration that was unfamiliar.

"I don’t have a ‘deal’," You affirmed, sitting up on the edge of your bed. "A girl can't be tired? I’ve been studying all day, then I had to go to work."

"So, we’re lying now?" His voice bit through the phone. "You were at the beach earlier, I saw you." He countered, his voice flat. "Saw you bolt, too."

You felt defensive, hand fisting into the sheets. "So? Don’t worry, I’m sure no one assumed I was associated with you. I maintained my six feet." You snapped.

A heavy sigh came through the line. "It's not even like that- Look, don't be like this. I'm still in your driveway. Just five minutes-"

"No," You said, the word surprisingly steady. "I don't want to talk to you.” You stood from your mattress, going over to your window and pulling the blinds up, finding Rafe leaned against his truck that was parked in your driveway, staring up at your window. “Go home, Rafe. Go to the club. Or go back to the beach. Maybe that girl is still there, waiting to jump down your throat."

A silence stretched, thin and dangerous. "...What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice came through the phone as you stared each other down.

"It means, yes, I was at the beach today," You explained, the words tumbling out in a rush, unable to hold them back any longer. "And I saw you. And that girl. You were practically wearing her as an accessory. I’m so overtired of waiting in this line, Rafe. For you to decide if I’m worth being seen with."

The air crackled with his rising fury. "Jesus- You're being dramatic. I hate when you play victim like this, like you don’t know what this is." He spat the words out, the harsh edges of his entitlement fully exposed. "You saw me talking to people, Y/N. People I have to talk to for my dad's business, for the appearance of things. And you throw a fit?"

You scoffed, ending the call and with some unknown strength, lifting your window in one motion. Both of your hands were on the seal as you leaned out of it, fuming. "You weren't talking business, Rafe. You were practically eye-fucking her."

"I was just feeding into her! She’s the daughter of some guy my dad needs on his good side, my God! Feeding into someone doesn’t mean I’m actually interested." He snapped. "Besides, we’re not together, Y/N. Not officially. I didn’t peg you for the jealous type..."

"...You're right," You said, your voice barely a whisper, thick with tears you refused to shed. "We're not together. And I don’t want to be your dirty little secret anymore."

Rafe sighed, pinching the skin between his eyebrows. “Okay, I didn't mean it like that. Baby, don’t-”

You slammed the window before he could finish and closed the blinds. For the first time, you refused to wait for him to call your bluff.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE A BLUR. The platinum ring came off, tucked into the velvet box and shoved to the back of a drawer. Every text Rafe sent—and he sent many, a frantic wave of apologies, or what he called apologies, and deflections—was met with a delay or, if you could help it, no response at all.

He was treating this like any other time something like this would happen—He pretends like nothing happened and eventually you follow suit.

He escalated from texts to calls. You ignored the first three. You answered the fourth, feeling the old pull of panic and desire, but forcing yourself to hold the line.

You sighed into the phone. “What do you-”

"You're seriously avoiding me?"

"Correct." You said coolly. "I’m living my life. Mine, Rafe. A life that doesn't revolve around waiting for your late-night signal just for you to remind how 'not together' we are."

You could almost feel his frustration. "Can you drop the bratty act? I already told you so many times that I’m keeping you…us, on the low for your sake." You scoffed into the phone, shaking your head. “You think I don’t know who I am? I don’t want you to have to deal with the scrutiny of dating me, Y/N.”

"I’m not a child, Rafe,” You sighed, weary. "And let’s not pretend this about you shielding me from the public eye. You just don’t want a title. That way you can do whatever you want and expect me not to complain because, as you so kindly reminded me, ‘we’re not together’.”

He sighed deeply. "I told you, you’re reading too much into it. You always do this," he scoffed. "And you know what? I don’t even have to put up with it. There are at least ten girls lined up who would kill for what you have-"

"Exactly, and you clearly have no problem entertaining them," You said, the words sharp. "So, go call one of them. Because I don’t have anything. Not anymore."

You hung up before he could respond. 

The next few days were the hardest. The phone didn't ring. The texts stopped. You started to wonder if you had overestimated your importance to him, if you truly were just another temporary fixture that had simply broken and been tossed aside.

Then, a text came through on Sunday evening, a shift in his usual aggressive approach.

The Wreck. The Wreck was the place for Pogue tourists and locals, but it was public. It was full of people. People who knew your face and people who knew Rafe Cameron. This wasn't a sneak. It was a date.

THE DINNER WAS SURREAL. Rafe Cameron, in a crisp button-down shirt and pressed khakis, sitting at a wobbly table next to the window, smiling at you as you walked in. 

Everyone on this side of the island knew you and they knew Rafe, and they certainly knew he wasn't often found in this establishment, let alone on a date with a Pogue-adjacent girl like you.

The air was different, not filled with anxiety over being caught, but with the sudden, undeniable visibility of being chosen. For the first time, you felt his vanity shift in your favor. He wasn't showing you off to his family or claiming you in front of his friends, but he was showing you off to the world that mattered to you.

He was attentive as you approached him, pulling out your chair, pushing you back in, asking questions that felt more genuine than usual. He didn't check his phone once.

But you couldn’t stop your own curiosity.

"...What changed?" You asked finally, after the appetizers arrived, interrupting him mid-ramble.

He shrugged, looking up at you before picking up a piece of calamari. "Nothing. I jus' missed you. Is that so hard to believe?"

"No, Rafe,” You started, brushing your hands down your dress. “You missed the blind obedience. You missed the…availability. Don’t lie. You wouldn't have done this if I hadn't...pulled back..."

He huffed and put the food down, meeting your gaze. "...Fine. You’re right. You pulled back, and I hated it. I didn't realize how much I hated not having you around until you weren't.” He explained, face flushing red. “Happy?"

"Define 'around'," You pressed relentlessly. This was the conversation he always avoided.

"Define 'around'," He repeated with a slight smirk, his voice low and breathy. "You know what I mean. The intimacy, the talking, the... us." He gestured between the two of you with his hand. "I missed us."

"The us…that doesn't have a label? That still won’t have a label, even after tonight-"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look, I brought you here, Y/N. This is my peace offering. A very…public peace offering. Can’t you see I’m trying here?"

"You said I was 'yours.', but you act like you’re on the market. Even worse, you act like you're ashamed of me or something-"

"I'm not ashamed. There's nothing about you to be ashamed of-"

"Then what is it really, Rafe?"

He took a slow, deep breath, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "...The world I live in is complicated. I mean it when I say I don’t want to throw you into that-."

"You threw yourself at me six months ago," You pointed out, not noticing Rafe's eyes drifting down to your now bare finger. "That didn't seem complicated-"

“Where’s your ring?” Rafe cut you off, eyes laser focused on the finger that always held the promise ring he’d gifted you.

You swallowed harshly, unconsciously hiding your hands under the table.

“...It’s in the box.”

“Why-”

“Because it hurts to look at, Rafe.” You snapped. “Besides, it clearly doesn’t mean anything…”

With that, you finished dinner in silence. Not a word said between you two but there was this…tension on Rafe’s face the rest of the night. Like he was deep in thought and nothing could pull him out, and when he walked you to your car, he swiftly pulled you into a dizzying kiss right on the busy sidewalk.

It was breath-taking, perfect even. But that’s all it was. A kiss. One amongst many shared.

“...Put the ring back on.” He whispered against your lips as he held you against him.

You drew your lips into a thin line, pushing yourself away from him slightly. “I’ll put the promise ring back on when you make me an actual promise. One I can believe in.” You said, whispered almost. Patting his chest, you turned away to get in your car. “...Goodnight, Rafe.”

OVER THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, the shift in Rafe’s behavior was undeniable, if not erratic. 

One Friday, he called you early, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

"My, uh, dad is hosting a big weekend retreat at the beach house on Hatteras," He explained. "I want you to come."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "To Hatteras? With your whole family? And Ward’s business partners?"

"Yeah. Sarah’s bringing Topper, but he’s harmless. Look, I need you there. It’s boring, and I can't stand it without you. We can have a proper weekend. Not sneaking around. Just... hanging out."

This was unprecedented. This was the complete opposite of the rules that had been silently laid out for you before. He was doing everything he had previously refused to do. He was opening his world.

"...What do I tell people when they ask what we are?" You challenged—anticipating the familiar, dismissive denial.

He paused. You could almost hear his brain scrambling for the usual escape clause. But he didn't use it.

"Tell them...that you're with me. Tell them we're... seeing each other. I'll handle the rest."

That was the closest he had ever come to an admission. You wanted to accept instantly, to rush and pack, to prove those gossiping girls wrong. But something was nagging. Something was telling you to look at the bigger picture. The patterns. To realize you'd be accepting the bare minimum.

"I can't, Rafe," You sighed.

"What? Why not?” He asked, confused more than ever. “What is it now?" He sighed, his frustration returning.

"Because the moment we get back, we'll be right back in the same loop," You explained softly. "You'll go back to pushing me into the dark because you brought me out to play for a little bit, and I’ll go back to staying in the dark because I love you but you don’t-" You stopped yourself, taking a deep breath.

"Stop.” Rafe demanded. “This is ridiculous. You know I love you," He insisted, his voice hardening again.

"You love me, but you won't commit. You want what you can't have, and the moment I give you everything, you stop respecting it. I made a choice, Rafe. I chose myself."

"Don't do this," He pleaded, the arrogance finally draining, replaced by a raw fear of loss. "Come this weekend. Please. We'll talk. I promise."

"All we ever do is talk, Rafe. I’m sorry but…I can’t."

You declined the invitation. And you hung up the phone.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Rafe’s desperation became a public spectacle. He started showing up at your school—or near it, waiting across the street, leaning against his truck, sunglasses concealing his eyes, but his posture radiating impatience. He bought you lunch from your favorite food truck and simply waited for you to come out.

You always accepted the food, made small talk, but never allowed him to take you home.

Finally, he’d managed to corner you on your own, stopping you on the way home on an evening you’d decided to walk. He pulled his truck up beside you, rolling down the window.

"Get in," He commanded.

"No," You said firmly, keeping your pace steady.

He swore under his breath, pulled over sharply, and jumped out, meeting you on the sidewalk. He looked disheveled, not his usual polished self. His hair was messy, and his eyes held a frantic edge.

"I can't do this anymore, Y/N." He admitted, the vulnerability shocking. "It's exhausting. I get it, okay? You want something simple, that you be sure of—but nothing about me or my life is simple-"

"Welcome to my world, Rafe," You replied dryly, drawing your lips into a thin line. "The world of exhaustion. The world of watching the guy you’re sleeping with, who tells you how he’s in love with you but won’t be with you, flirt with other girls, while you sit in silence because, as he so kindly reminds you, you’re ‘not together'."

"Jesus- I stopped flirting! I showed you off! I invited you to Hatteras! What is the end game here? You want me to get down on one knee?" He gestured wildly with his hands.

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully, the evening light casting long shadows across your faces. This was the moment. The decision point. Hell or paradise.

"The end game is simple," You said, your voice shaking slightly, but your gaze steady. "I’ve realized I am the jealous type, Rafe. I am in fact jealous when you tell me you love me and act the complete opposite over some bullshit excuse of your world being ‘too complicated’ when, news flash—I’m already in your world. The whole island may not know about us, but some of them do. I already get the mean stares and the whispers. So, either realize that I can handle your world, or admit that you just don’t want me."

You took a step closer. "I'm not asking for marriage, Rafe. I'm asking for a title. A label. The word. Something so simple that makes everything else simple. You can either make us official or you can let me go entirely. I’m done sneaking around with you, Rafe. Done."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard on the Outer Banks. It was heavier than gold, denser than the trees, and more terrifying than the thought of losing him.

Rafe Cameron, the golden boy of Figure Eight, stared at you, his mind visibly warring between his own irrational fears and the absolute terror of losing the one person who saw past the surface.

"...You really mean that." He said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.

You nodded. "I do. I made a choice, Rafe. It's about time for you to do the same."

Rafe didn't answer immediately. He stepped away from you, running his hands over the back of his neck, pacing a tight circle on the pavement. He looked like a caged animal, torn between the impulse to lash out and the instinct to save what was precious.

He was silent for so long that you felt the finality of the breakup settling heavily in your soul. You started to turn away, a lump in your throat as you held your head down.

"Woah- wait."

You stopped, but didn't look back. A deep breath leaving your lungs.

"Just…wait. Don’t go, Y/N." His voice was hoarse, stripped of all its usual bravado.

He came up behind you, placing his hands lightly on your shoulders, but not pulling you back. "I’m sorry. This whole thing... it was never about shame or anything, I swear," He admitted, the words barely audible. "My dad’s world, my life... none of it is mine. You were the one thing that was completely mine, completely private. If I made you official, everyone would know, and everyone would have an opinion, and they would ruin it. They would ruin us."

"You’re ruining us now," You whispered, finally turning to face him, tears blurring your vision.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest, burying his face in your hair.

"I know, I'm sorry," He mumbled, a small, genuine laugh escaping him. "I was trying not to. But you’re right. I…don't want to lose you."

He pulled back, holding your face between his palms, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. His eyes were direct, unwavering.

"Y/N," He started, a tremor in his voice. "I love you. And I want you to be my girl. My official, public, terrifyingly permanent girlfriend."

He took another deep breath, the admission costing him everything. "I want to take you to the club and teach you how to golf. I want to introduce you to my annoying ass sisters as my girlfriend. I want you to be the only face I’m looking at, even when I have to schmooze with idiots. I’ll make the choice. So,” He continued, his eyes almost shaking with anticipation, wondering if he’d done this too late. “Will you take me back, and let me try to get this right?"

The relief that flooded your system was immediate, overwhelming, and terrifying. 

You nodded, releasing the breath you were holding. "Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?" You choked out, breathing out a laugh. 

A genuine, wide grin split his face, and he kissed you, right there on the sidewalk, uncaring about the cars driving past or the neighbors who might be watching. It was a kiss of relief, of surrender, and of a brand new, terrifyingly public commitment.

When the kiss ended, he didn't let go. He kept one arm locked around your waist.

"So, my beautiful girlfriend," He said, the word feeling foreign and perfect on his lips. "You wanna drive over to your place, get some of that takeout you love, and watch that reality TV show I pretend to hate?"

"Only if you mean it," You challenged.

He smiled, squeezing you tight and kissing your forehead. 

THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND, Rafe made good on his promise. He didn't just invite you to a party, he brought you as his designated date to a formal dinner at the Country Club.

You wore the dress he’d bought you months ago, when he’d almost got over his fear on his own and almost invited you to a family dinner…right before Ward’s typical parenting clouded Rafe’s judgement. He’d still given you the dress, dismissing it another gift, neglecting to mention how it matched his favorite suit. As you walked through the polished halls, Rafe's hand was firmly on the small of your back.

As you walked past the bar, you saw the engaged woman who had called you "delusional" weeks before. She was eyeing you, her signature martini glass paused halfway to her lips. Rafe simply tightened his grip on you as you offered her a slight, confident nod.

At the dinner table, he introduced you to his father's associates as his girlfriend. It was a jarring sound, a title that finally grounded the chaos you had lived in.

Later, while you were waiting for him to grab you a drink, the brunette from the beach approached you as her father left her side. "You must be Y/N," She said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. "Rafe’s... friend."

You felt the familiar surge of jealousy, but this time, you were armed with a title and a promise. You held up your hand, adjusting the platinum band—which you had retrieved from the drawer—and gave her a polite, cold smile.

"I’m actually his girlfriend," You corrected smoothly, a sickeningly sweet smile on your face. "He just went to get me a refill, should be back soon."

The girl’s smile faltered. Before she could recover, Rafe was back, his hand wrapping instantly around your waist, pulling you smoothly against his side. He didn't say anything to the girl, but the message was clear in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, and in the way he focused his entire attention on you.

"Ready, angel? I wanna get some air," He murmured, leaning down to press a quick, definitive kiss to your temple.

As you walked away, you looked back. The brunette was gone, relegated to the background, blending back into the noise.

You and Rafe stepped out onto the balcony, the sound of the ocean washing away the clamor of the party.

"You okay?" He asked, sensing the lingering tension.

"Better than okay," You admitted, resting your head on his shoulder. "I'm just...getting used to it. Being yours. Out loud."

He pulled the platinum band off your finger and kissed the top of your hand before sliding the ring back on.

"You were always mine, Y/N," He said, his voice low and solemn.

©loveharlow.

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This was your official debut as his girlfriend, stepping into the spotlight for the first time. Your heart raced, not from the adrenaline of the sport but from the nerve-wracking reality of being here, surrounded by people who lived and breathed Formula 1. You’d spent countless nights scrolling through social media, seeing how some fans could be—relentless in their opinions, cutting down a driver’s girlfriend simply because they didn’t like her.

It was tough sometimes, imagining yourself on the receiving end of that scrutiny. Would they think you were good enough for Rafe? Would they nitpick your every move, your every word, just to find flaws? The thought had kept you awake the night before, despite Rafe’s reassurances.

Rafe, walking beside you, was as confident as ever, exuding the easy charisma that had made him both a star on the track and off. His hand rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the chaos, even outside the paddock gates, with practised ease. Your hands were slightly shaky as you scanned your paddock pass, “You good?” he asked, leaning down so only you could hear.

His voice was low and steady, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy around you. You glanced up at him. “I think so,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the noise. “Don’t think,” he said, his tone teasing but affectionate. “Just walk in there like you own the place. Because, baby, you kind of do.” He adds, kissing the side of your head.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though the nerves didn’t completely fade. Rafe had an unmatched ability to make you feel like you belonged, even when you doubted yourself. You smooth out your red dress—one he had personally insisted you wear. "You'll match the car," he'd teased, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "And I'll look like the luckiest guy in the paddock."

As you walked past the throngs of fans lined against the barriers, the buzz grew louder. Their cheers grew louder, a cacophony of voices calling out Rafe’s name—and, to your surprise, your own. Phones were raised, the flashes of cameras capturing every moment. Your heart raced, a mix of nerves and exhilaration coursing through you.

"See, they like you already," Austin, Rafe's personal trainer teased gently. His tone was lighthearted, a deliberate attempt to ease your obvious unease. He nudged your arm, grinning as you chuckled softly, trying to shake off the nerves that clung to you. Rafe, ever composed and effortlessly charming, raised his hand in a casual wave to the crowd.

You followed his lead, offering a small, tentative wave and a smile that you hoped looked more confident than you felt. Rafe checked his watch before glancing at the crowd again. “We’ve got time, don’t we?” he asked Austin, though it was more rhetorical than a genuine inquiry. Without waiting for a response, he veered toward a particularly animated group of fans near the front of the barrier.

You stayed back with Austin, watching as Rafe transitioned seamlessly into fan mode. He moved with ease, signing caps, shirts, and posters, pausing for selfies, and exchanging quick banter with his supporters. Your gaze softened as you observed him, pride swelling in your chest. He looked so at home in this chaotic environment, his bright smile and relaxed demeanor making him seem untouchable yet entirely approachable.

Then, as if he could feel your eyes on him, Rafe turned his head to look at you. A mischievous smile danced on his lips as he said something, his words lost in the roar of the crowd. “What’s he saying?” you asked Austin, tilting your head in confusion. Rafe then blew you a kiss with an exaggerated flair, his grin widening when he saw the shy smile it drew from you.

“Rafe, is that your girlfriend over there?” a girl asked as he scribbled his autograph on his photo. Her tone was curious but warm, not laced with the venom you’d feared. Rafe glanced back at you, his smile softening into something almost tender. “Yeah,” he said proudly, not missing a beat. “That’s her. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” The fans erupted into cheers, their excitement palpable as they turned their attention to you.

You froze for a moment, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks, but Rafe’s unwavering confidence in you gave you the courage to offer another small wave. “I hope you guys love her as much as I do,” Rafe added, his tone light but sincere. After a few more photos and quick goodbyes, Rafe made his way back to you, his stride confident and purposeful. As soon as he reached you, his arm slipped naturally around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

“What were you saying back there?” you asked, looking up at him with curiosity. Rafe didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just enough to make your heart flutter. “Just telling them how gorgeous you are,” he replied casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You felt the blush creeping up your neck, your cheeks warm as you let out a soft, embarrassed giggle.

Rafe chuckled, clearly pleased with your reaction, and squeezed your shoulder. The paddock was a whirlwind of activity. Team members darted around, engineers shouted commands, and reporters lingered, waiting for their chance to snag an interview. Rafe navigated it effortlessly, introducing you to key people as you clung to his side, trying to take it all in.

As he prepared to leave for his pre-race routine, he turned to you, the confident façade slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his vulnerability. “You’re gonna be okay?” he asked quietly, his fingers lingering at your side. You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I’ll be fine, I'll hang out with Sofia," You say, glancing back at Sofia who was Rafe's teammate's girlfriend.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered just long enough to make your cheeks flush. “Good. Because you belong here with me, whether you believe it yet or not.” As he walked away, you felt the cameras capturing the moment, and for the first time, you didn’t feel out of place. You felt proud. Proud to be by his side, no matter how intimidating the spotlight might be.

~

"Rafe Cameron wins the Spanish Grand Prix, and it is a 1-2 finish for the Scuderia Ferrari!" The commentator's jubilant voice rang through your headphones, the words igniting an explosion of joy in the Ferrari garage. The moment the announcement registered, you and Sofia turned to each other, your faces lighting up with pure elation.

Without thinking, you both started squealing, your voices blending into the symphony of celebration around you. You grabbed her hands, jumping up and down like giddy schoolgirls, the weight of nerves and anticipation finally melting away. “They did it!” Sofia shouted, her wide grin matching yours as you both clung to each other, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the victory.

The rest of the Ferrari garage erupted into cheers, a sea of red erupting with applause, hugs, and celebratory fist pumps. Engineers and crew members were already spilling out onto the pitlane, sprinting toward the podium to catch a glimpse of their drivers and bask in the glory of the victory. You could barely hear yourself think over the noise, but it didn’t matter.

The joy was infectious, and you found yourself swept up in the chaos, laughing and cheering along with everyone else. Sofia nudged you with her elbow, her face flushed with excitement. “We’ve gotta get to the podium!” You didn’t need to be told twice. Linking arms with her, you followed the stream of Ferrari personnel down the pitlane. Your heart pounded in your chest—not from nerves this time, but from pride and exhilaration.

As you reached the podium area, the roar of the crowd hit you like a wave. Thousands of fans filled the grandstands, waving Ferrari flags and chanting Rafe’s name. The energy was electric, the entire circuit seemingly united in celebration. The team’s staff ushered you and Sofia forward, guiding you both to the front row, just behind the barriers, giving you the perfect view. And then you saw him, climbing out of his car with a triumphant smile that lit up his entire face.

He threw his arms up in victory, basking in the adoration of the crowd. Your heart raced as Rafe's eyes locked onto yours in the midst of the roaring crowd. His grin widened, that familiar spark of mischief in his gaze, and he pointed directly at you. It felt like the world slowed for just a moment—just you and him, amidst the chaos.

The cameras snapped furiously, capturing the fleeting connection between you both, and a wave of pride surged through you. Without thinking, you blew him a kiss, your smile so wide it felt like your cheeks might burst from the effort. His response was immediate. With a joyful laugh and a skip in his step, Rafe jumped down from his car, making his way toward you as if nothing else in the world mattered.

As he reached you, he pulled you into a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet for a moment, as the crowd's cheers grew louder around you. The cameras followed you both closely, documenting the raw, unfiltered joy of the moment. "You did it, baby!" you exclaimed, your voice muffled slightly by the noise around you, but the sentiment was clear.

Rafe held you close, his arms strong around your back, his helmet still on, the sweaty material of his racing suit rubbing against your skin. He laughed, a deep, satisfied sound that resonated with the energy of the victory. "Couldn’t have done it without you," he murmured, his voice low but filled with emotion. Then, with a playful grin, he lifted his visor, revealing the intensity of his eyes beneath.

You leaned up and placed a quick, soft kiss on his helmet, the action gentle and affectionate. The cameras caught the moment, and you could hear the claps and whistles of Rafe's teammates in the background. You pulled away, giggling shyly, feeling the heat rush to your face as the attention turned to you.