Rafey’s Slut ;)

The sight of them together was a splinter under your skin, small but impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him since the breakup—not really—and now here you were, “Y/n?” Jolene’s voice snapped you back. “Are you even listening—?” Before you could answer, a familiar, singsong voice cut through.

“Hi!” You turned, and there she was. Sofia, in a slinky green silk dress that shimmered under the chandelier light. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes a little glassy, champagne in one hand and a tipsy smile plastered on her face. “I’m so glad I found you,” she said brightly, stepping in closer like you were old friends.

“We never talk. We should talk.” Your mouth curved into the kind of polite smile you reserved for people you didn’t like but couldn’t openly insult. “Is that so?” She laughed, a touch too loud, ignoring your edge. “You know, I’ve always wanted to clear the air with you. I feel like you hate me.”

Jolene stiffened beside you. Charlotte, standing a few feet away, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sofia’s voice dropped just enough to feel intimate—but still loud enough that a few curious heads turned. “Is it because you think Rafe cheated on you with me?” You blinked. The audacity was almost impressive.

Before you could respond, she barrelled on, eyes wide and earnest. “I just want you to know, Rafe never messed around with me while he was with you.” The air shifted. Conversations nearby dimmed as a few people glanced over. You looked her dead in the eye, voice steady. “Oh, I know. Rafe would’ve never cheated on me.”

Her smile faltered for half a second before she nodded, awkwardly. “Good. Good, I’m glad we’re clear.” Then, in what you assumed was meant to be some grand display of friendly reassurance, she reached out to clasp your arm. Her fingers snagged. The sound was unmistakable.

The chiffon sleeve of your dress tore clean from the seam, the delicate fabric dangling uselessly against your side. Your jaw dropped. Gasps erupted from Charlotte and Jolene, sharp and in unison. Even a few strangers nearby froze mid-conversation. “Oh my god,” Sofia gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I—”

You straightened, trying to keep your composure as you shifted the fabric to cover yourself. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Before you could take a step back, her expression shifted—a sudden, startled panic. “Oh no—” Warm, acidic liquid splattered against your feet. The smell hit before your brain fully processed it.

You stared down at the mess splattered across your shoes, your stomach twisting in disbelief. “Oh my god,” you breathed, half in shock, half in disgust. Jolene’s sharp inhale cut through the stunned silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”Charlotte reached for your arm. “Y/n—”

But you were already peeling Sofia’s hands off you, your grip firm. She was hiccuping through watery eyes, her breath reeking faintly of champagne. “I’m so sorry—” “It’s ok, sweetie,” you said, your voice dripping with sugar and steel. With a steady hand, you took her wrist and guided her back toward her seat, setting her down like a wayward child.

“I’m so sorry—” she hiccuped, eyes watery now. “It’s fine,” you said again, voice flat and clipped, every word an effort not to snap. Without another glance, you turned and strode through the crowd, the hem of your gown brushing against your bare ankles now that you’d kicked off the ruined shoes.

Guests parted for you, murmuring behind their champagne glasses. The ladies’ bathroom was empty. You gripped the marble counter, taking a slow breath before setting your shoes down and blotting them with paper towels. Cold water, soap, anything to erase the smell.

Your reflection in the mirror looked tired, flushed, and one sleeve short. You’d just finished scrubbing when you opened the door—And froze. Rafe was leaning against the wall opposite, his hands in his pockets, one leg casually crossed over the other. The bow tie was gone now, his shirt collar open just enough to make your stomach twist.

His gaze swept over you—bare feet, torn dress, damp paper towel still in your hand.“You good?” he asked, voice low and edged with something unreadable. Your grip tightened on the paper towel. “Why wouldn’t I be?” His jaw flexed. “Because I just watched Sofia rip your dress, puke on your shoes, and hang off you like a stage-five clinger. That about right?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice even. “It’s handled.” He didn’t move, just watched you like he could see past every word. “Doesn’t look handled from here.” You shifted, trying to sidestep him, but he pushed off the wall, blocking you just enough without touching you.

The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you, achingly familiar. “Go back to your date,” you said finally, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. A faint, humourless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Who says I came out here for her?” Your eyes narrowed.

“Then why are you here, Rafe? Because unless you came to offer me a dry-cleaning voucher, I really don’t see the point.” His smirk faded, replaced by that unreadable look you hated—the one that made you feel like he was peeling you apart without saying a word. “Because I wanted to know what the hell that was about.”

You raised a brow. “Which part? The dress? The vomit? Or the part where your girlfriend decided to make a public service announcement on your behalf?” That got him. His jaw ticked, the muscle jumping as he studied you. “What did she say?” You took a step closer, letting your bare feet sink into the plush hallway carpet.

“She told me in front of half the fucking room that you ‘never messed around with her while you were with me.’” Rafe’s brows drew together. “And?” “And,” you said, voice tightening, “I told her I already knew you wouldn’t have cheated on me. Which, by the way, seemed to shock her.” For a moment, he just stared at you.

His eyes softened barely, like something about your answer had caught him off guard. “You still believe that?” You scoffed, though the sound came out quieter than you intended. “I wouldn’t have dated you if I thought you were the type, Rafe.” He let out a slow breath, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Then why the hell does she think you hate her for it?” Your laugh was short, humourless. “Because she needs to believe this is about you, Rafe. She can’t imagine that maybe I just don’t like her.” The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Guess I can’t blame you for that.” You rolled your eyes, brushing past him.

He looked like he always did at the end of the day—tired, expensive, untouchable. You wondered if she liked that look too. Because now you knew. You knew about her. The woman with blonde hair and glossy lips who met him at that coastal hotel every other Thursday.

The one the staff whispered about when they thought you weren’t listening. The one who wore a gold bracelet identical to the one you’d bought him for his birthday. “Something wrong?” Rafe’s voice finally broke through your thoughts, lazy and low. He didn’t even look up from his plate.

“You’ve been quiet all night.” Your fork scraped against the porcelain a little too harshly. “You’d notice that,” you said evenly, dabbing your lips with your napkin, “but not the fact that people are starting to talk.” That got his attention.

His blue eyes flicked up, cool, composed, calculating. “Talk?” he echoed. “About what?” “Don’t insult me, Rafe.” Your tone came out sharper than you meant, but you didn’t pull it back. “You think I don’t know about her?” A pause. The kind that stretched, thin and dangerous.

He set his knife down slowly, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to decide whether to deny it or not. “Her who?” You let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “The woman you’ve been fucking.” The air went still. The faint tick of the clock over the mantel suddenly became unbearable.

Rafe leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Watch your tone.” “Watch your lies,” you shot back, your control starting to slip. “You think because this marriage isn’t what either of us wanted that I’ll sit here and let you humiliate me? Let people pity me? You forget, Rafe, you’re not just my husband. You’re a Cameron. My family’s reputation is tied to yours.”

Something flickered across his face, annoyance, guilt, pride, you couldn’t tell. He picked up his glass, took a slow sip, and muttered, “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” “Oh, I don’t,” you said quietly. “Which is why I had your driver followed last week.” The glass froze halfway to his lips.

That got him. You tilted your head, eyes hard. “Next time, pick a hotel that isn’t so fond of gossiping staff.” He didn’t speak for a long moment. When he finally set his drink down, his expression was carefully blank, but his jaw had gone rigid, and you could see the faint pulse ticking beneath his skin.

“So what now?” he said finally. “You want to play the betrayed wife?” You flinched. “You think this is a game?” “I think you’re enjoying the performance,” he muttered, leaning forward now, voice sharp. “We both know this isn’t a real marriage. You didn’t marry me because you loved me, sweetheart, you did it because your family told you to.”

“Don’t twist this.” You could feel your throat tightening. “You can hate me, Rafe, you can hate this marriage. I don’t care. But you will not embarrass me. Or this family.” “And if I do?” His tone was a taunt, eyes glinting like he wanted to see you snap. You met his gaze squarely.

“Then I’ll make sure she’s the one humiliated next. Every door she tries to walk through will close. Every client she tries to charm will vanish. Her name will be poison before the month is over.” You paused, letting your words settle between you.

“So you can either end it quietly, or I will end her quietly. Your choice.” The silence that followed was heavy. Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His expression stayed unreadable, but there was something burning behind his eyes, something that looked dangerously close to admiration or maybe disbelief that you’d had the spine to challenge him like that.

Then, finally, he exhaled, a low curse slipping under his breath. “Fine,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll end it.” You blinked. “Just like that?” His eyes met yours again, sharp and steady. “Just like that.” You didn’t thank him. You didn’t even look away.

You simply nodded once and rose from your seat, gathering what was left of your dignity. As you walked past him, your perfume lingered in the air. You stopped at the door, hand resting on the frame. “For what it’s worth,” you said softly, not turning around, “I didn’t expect you to be faithful. But I expected you to be discreet.”

You left him there silent, jaw tight, his untouched wine glass glinting under the chandelier. Later that night, when you lay in your bed staring at the ceiling, you heard the front door slam. A car engine started. He really did it.

He finally emerged from the side door, slinging his thermos into the truck’s cab and adjusting his cap. His jaw was tight but the second his eyes landed on you, he softened. “Better put on somethin’ before the whole neighborhood gets a show, sweetheart,” he called teasingly as he walked towards his truck, a smirk on his lips.

That dimple you loved peeked out, the corner of his mouth twitching as his gaze dipped low over your exposed legs. You just smiled sweetly, took a sip of your coffee, and shrugged. “Aren’t you the only one lucky enough to get a show?” He chuckled and climbed in, engine roaring to life, tires crunching over the gravel as he started to back down your private driveway.

You watched him through thick lashes, hip hitched against the railing. You gave a small wave with your coffee cup as he pulled away, wheels crunching softly down the long gravel driveway. You didn’t move. Just leaned a little more into the column, letting the robe slip slightly off your shoulder, knowing he’d glance back one last time in the side mirror.

You caught the twitch in the brake lights. Perfect. And then—just as he passed the exact spot where you always stood every morning to wave him goodbye, you struck. In one smooth motion, your robe dropped open. You lifted your shirt up, high enough to bare your breasts to the morning air—bare, soft, nipples already hard from the teasing breeze.

Sunlight bathed you in warm light, highlighting every curve, every inch of exposed skin.Pure sin wrapped in silk. You stood still. Unbothered. Unashamed. And you knew the second he saw. Sunlight bathed you in warm light, highlighting every curve, every inch of exposed skin.Pure sin wrapped in silk. You stood still. Unbothered. Unashamed. And you knew the second he saw.

The truck didn’t even make it to the bend. The brake lights slammed red. A full stop. Then silence. You could hear the engine idling like even the truck didn’t know what to do next. Then the reverse lights flashed on. The tires crunched furiously against the gravel as he reversed hard, like he was dragging himself back from a cliff.

Dust kicked up behind him, the whole front end of the truck lurching with speed until it rolled right back into place at the base of the porch steps. The truck door swung open with force. Rafe stepped out—no, stormed out—booted feet thudding over the gravel, eyes locked on you like a hunter zeroing in. He said nothing at first.

Just stood at the bottom of the steps, jaw clenched, eyes blazing, chest rising and falling beneath that snug green tee. His hand was still on the truck door, knuckles white. Then his gaze dragged slowly—intently—up your body. From your bare thighs, to your stomach, to your breasts still fully exposed under the thin morning light.

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?” You tilted your head, that innocent little smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe.” His jaw ticked, a vein twitching in his neck. Then he growled, low and rough. “Get in the house.” You raised a brow. “I thought you had to get to work, baby.” “Bedroom. Now.” “Make me.” That was all it took.

He stepped into your space with the kind of intensity that made your thighs clench, his calloused hand sliding around the back of your neck, fingers tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand tugged the robe the rest of the way off your shoulders, letting it fall uselessly to the floorboards.

“You just bared your fuckin’ tits to me at seven in the goddamn morning and you think I’m just gonna drive off? Nah,” he muttered, voice gravelly, thick with arousal. “You want attention, princess? You got it. Now get inside before I bend you over the railing.”

You swallowed hard, arousal pooling low in your belly, and turned wordlessly on bare feet, sauntering toward the front door. Rafe followed close behind, every step heavy, possessive. You could feel the heat of him, his desire radiating off him like a furnace.

The second you crossed the threshold, he caught your wrist, spun you around, and pressed you flat against the wall of the hallway. “Rafe—” “You want to act like a fuckin’ brat,” he murmured, kissing down your neck as his hand slid between your legs, “then I’ll treat you like one.” You moaned as his fingers slid against you—rough, practiced, confident.

He knew every inch of your body, every place to touch, every way to make you beg. “Didn’t think you had the balls to tease me before a pour,” he said, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. “But now I gotta deal with this before I can even think straight.”

You smiled, sharp and glossy. “You’re a big boy. You can pour your own.” He didn’t miss the way your hand tightened around the glass. Didn’t miss how quickly you drained it when he looked away. At first, he chalked it up to you being like everyone else in your circle—drinking was practically a lifestyle on the Kook side of the island.

Parties every weekend, cocktails at brunch, champagne flutes at charity events. You were just keeping up. But then he started watching closer. The way your eyes always sought out the bar cart first thing when you came over. How you laughed too loudly, too quickly, when you had a drink in hand, as if the alcohol gave you permission to loosen up.

The subtle shake of your fingers if you went too long without one. No one else noticed. Your friends were too wrapped up in themselves, and your family was too concerned with appearances. They brushed it off as you being “fun,” “the life of the party,” “just blowing off steam. But Rafe? Rafe saw.

He saw the morning afters, when your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, when your hands trembled as you buttoned your blouse, when you slipped aspirin into your mouth before coffee. He saw the way your moods dipped low if you hadn’t had a drink. He saw the way you needed it—not wanted it, not liked it, but needed it.

And it gnawed at him. He wasn’t good at handling fragile things. He was reckless, impulsive, rough around the edges. But you—he cared. Against every odds stacked against him, he cared about you in a way that made his chest hurt. One night, after a particularly messy party where you’d laughed yourself hoarse and swayed a little too heavily on your heels, he drove you home.

You leaned against the passenger window, humming to yourself, perfume and vodka mixing thick in his truck. “You know you don’t have to do this every night,” he said suddenly, voice low. Your head turned lazily, eyes glassy. “Do what?” “This.” He gestured to you, to the slouch of your body, the way you clutched the clutch bag on your lap like it held the world.

“Drink like it’s the only thing keeping you breathing.” You went quiet, too quiet. For a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep. Then your lips curled into something sharp. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, Rafe.” His jaw ticked, but he didn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“I’m not. I’m just saying what I see.” You scoffed, leaning your head back against the window, the glass cool on your flushed cheek. “What you think you see.” He risked a glance at you, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I know the difference. I’ve been around enough bullshit to tell when someone’s drowning.”

That pulled your attention back to him, irritation flickering in your gaze. “So now I’m drowning?” “You tell me,” he shot back, voice sharper than before. “Because every time I look at you, you’ve got a glass in your hand like it’s the only thing holding you together.” You bristled, shifting in your seat, clutch bag clutched tighter to your chest.

“Maybe I just like drinking. Everyone does it, Rafe.” “Not like you,” he said, quieter now, but the weight of it hung heavy between you. Your throat felt dry. You wanted to argue, to laugh it off, but the way he said it—soft, certain—knocked something loose in your chest.

So instead, you turned your facr back toward the dark window, watching the blur of lights. “Drop it, Rafe,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. For a long moment, the car was silent except for the tires on asphalt. He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw clenching.

He wanted to argue, to push, but he bit it back. Because he knew the look in your eyes—the one that begged him not to. After that, he didn’t say anything more, not directly. But he started doing small things. Pouring you less when he mixed drinks. Handing you water between glasses.

Keeping his hand steady on the small of your back when you swayed. Picking you up before anyone else noticed how unsteady you were. And you hated that you loved it. That someone actually saw you. That someone cared enough to notice the cracks no one else did.

By your third year as a dcc, the routines were second nature. You knew the formations, the sideline smiles, the calendar shoots, and every high kick like the back of your hand. But this season felt… different. At practice, you’d found yourself winded when you shouldn’t be.

Missing your timing on an eight-count you could normally do in your sleep. And when you’d doubled over mid-dance, one of your teammates—Kylie—had passed you a water bottle, worry written across her face. “Y/n, you okay?” You’d nodded quickly, brushing it off. “Yeah. Just didn’t eat enough this morning.” A lie.

The truth was you had eaten, but the nausea had hit anyway—sharp and sudden. You’d barely made it to the bathroom in time, heaving for the third time this week. Now, standing under the harsh lights, your hand drifted to your stomach. You were disciplined.

You trained like an athlete, ate clean, worked harder than most. But lately, nothing stopped the bloat, the exhaustion, the waves of sickness. And in the back of your mind, a thought had been circling for days. Because deep down, you knew this wasn’t just stress.

-

That night, you came home to find Rafe stretched out on the couch, an ice pack balanced on his shoulder, post-game soreness written all over his body. “Hey, baby,” he grinned lazily, reaching for you as you walked by. “How was practice?” “Fine,” you said too quickly, dodging his hand and heading straight for the bedroom.

His brow furrowed. He knew you too well. Within seconds, he was following you down the hall. “Hey. What’s wrong?” You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your cheer bag like it might give you the answers. Finally, you lifted your eyes to his. “Rafe… I think I might be pregnant.”

Instead, Rafe sank to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding gently over yours. “You think… or you know?” “I don’t know,” you whispered, your throat tight. “I’ve been sick at practice. I can’t keep up like I usually do. My uniform doesn’t fit right anymore, and—” “Okay, okay,” he cut in softly, squeezing your hands.

“Calm down, baby. We’ll get a pregnancy test tomorrow, yeah?” Your eyes burned. “Rafe, this could ruin everything. I’m a vet. I can’t just disappear mid-season. And if it’s true—if I really am…” Your voice cracked. “What about the team? What about everything I’ve worked for?”

He pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to your hair. “What about us? What about the fact that we’d have a baby? You don’t have to figure this out alone, Y/n.”You kept your gaze down, but his forehead pressed against yours until you finally met his eyes.

“If you are, we’ll deal with it together. And if you’re not… then it’s just a scare, and we move on. Either way—you don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

-

The next morning, you sat on the bathroom floor with a test in your hand, Rafe pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. The little pink lines appeared almost instantly. Two of them. Your breath hitched. Rafe was crouched beside you in an instant, his big hand covering yours, his eyes locked on the test.

For once, he was speechless. “Rafe…” Your voice cracked, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I’m pregnant.” Silence. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curved into something you hadn’t expected—something soft, almost disbelieving. “You’re pregnant,” he repeated, like he was trying to wrap his mind around it.

The no fraternising rule wasn’t official, but it was one everyone respected. Sweethearts didn’t mess around with the guys. You weren’t about to be the girl whispered about in the back of meetings. Rafe leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, red Solo cup in hand, smirk tugging at his lips.

That messy blond hair, the backwards cap, the cocky tilt of his chin—it all screamed trouble. He’d only been back from his summer internship a couple weeks, and already the stories about his antics were circulating again.

“Hey sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low enough for you to catch over the music, “lookin’ a little too good to be slummin’ it with us tonight.” You rolled your eyes, moving past him to grab a water from the fridge. “Don’t waste your time, Cameron. I don’t hook up with frat guys.”

He tilted his head, lips tugging into a smirk. “Guess I’ll have to test how strict that little rule of yours really is.” From the couch, his brothers jumped in like they couldn’t help themselves. “Rafe, don’t even try,” Kelce laughed, shaking his head. “She’s been sweetheart for two years. Girl doesn’t slip. Ever.”

Topper lifted his beer. “She’s not gonna give you the time of day, man. Save yourself the embarrassment.” Rafe didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, hungry, amused. “Sounds like a challenge.” You rolled your eyes, brushing past him, but he stayed close the rest of the night.

Always in your periphery, brushing your arm in the hallway, leaning just a little too close when he spoke, every word laced with heat. It was infuriating, and worse—it was working. You’d meant to slip upstairs for five minutes of quiet, but the second you stepped into the study, closing the door halfway, the quiet had barely settled before you heard it click shut behind you.

Rafe. “Didn’t say you could come in here,” you said, crossing your arms. “Didn’t say I needed permission.” His grin was infuriating. He stepped closer, voice dropping. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t tell me you really don’t feel this.”

You wanted to laugh it off, shove him away, remind him again that you weren’t that girl. But his hand brushed down your arm, slow and deliberate, and it was like your rules started to crumble all at once.

This is a bad idea,” you whispered, but it didn’t sound convincing—not when your breath hitched as he tilted your chin up. “Best ones always are,” he murmured before his lips crashed onto yours. And then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t tentative—it was a crash, a claim, years of denied tension snapping all at once.

His hands were at your waist, fingers pressing into your hips, pulling you flush against him as his tongue slid past your lips. You made a muffled sound against his mouth, half-protest, half-surrender, but you didn’t push him away. He lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, stepping between your legs, kissing you like he’d been starving for it.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer, rules dissolving under the taste of him. When he finally broke for air, both of you breathing hard, his lips grazed your jaw as he murmured, low and cocky, “Knew you’d feel this too.” “Rafe…” Your voice cracked, your heart hammering. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

His teeth caught your earlobe, sending a shiver through you. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “after the way you just kissed me back? You really think you’re gonna stop at just this?” You should’ve pushed him away. You should’ve walked out.

He let out a low chuckle, voice still gravelly from sleep. “Babe, you say that every morning.” “Because I mean it every morning,” you mumbled, eyes barely open as your fingers lazily traced down his arm. He twisted in the bed to face you, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, blonde hair sticking out in all directions.

“If I don’t leave in ten minutes, Cap’s gonna have my ass.” You slid a leg over his, curling your body into his chest, desperate to keep the warmth between you. “Let him have it,” you muttered. “I want it more.” He laughed again, deeper this time, but it cut off when your hips rolled just enough to remind him you were wearing nothing but one of his shirts—and that it had ridden up in your sleep.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes narrowing with both fondness and want. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” “I just don’t want to be alone all day,” you whispered, lifting your head to look up at him, lashes fluttering as your bottom lip jutted out slightly. “You’re always gone for hours… I miss you before you’re even out the door.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, jaw flexing. “You’re making it real hard to be responsible right now, baby,” he muttered, the hand on your waist tightening slightly. “You know that, right?” “Then don’t be,” you whispered against his lips, leaning in. “Just be mine for five more minutes.”

That was all it took. He surged forward, catching your mouth in a hungry kiss, one hand sliding under your shirt, fingers splayed across your bare back, pulling you on top of him. His hips shifted beneath yours, already hard and pressing against the inside of your thigh.

You gasped into his mouth, nails raking lightly down his chest. “I’m gonna be late,” he groaned against your throat as he flipped you under him, pushing your thighs apart. “Worth it,” you breathed, arching into him, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The world outside could burn for all you cared.

Right now, the only flames that mattered were the ones he lit under your skin. His thrusts were quick, urgent, like he was trying to memorise the feeling of you before the day dragged him away. Your breath hitched with every movement, one hand gripping the sheets, the other cupping the back of his neck as you whispered praises into his skin.

It didn’t take long—he always said mornings with you did something to him, made him lose all control. You felt it too, that electric build between your bodies, sharp and pulsing, until— “Fuck, Drew—” you gasped, arching, your body locking beneath his.

He groaned your name in return, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge, fingers digging into your hips. The room fell quiet again, save for the sound of your mixed breaths. His body collapsed half on top of yours, warm and heavy and perfect. After a long moment, he lifted his head slightly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You tightened your grip around the neck of the Grey Goose bottle as you stumbled a little, blinking up at the night sky and laughing bitterly. And that’s when you heard the low purr of an engine behind you. A flash of headlights. You didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

The Mercedes slowed beside you, smooth and deliberate, like a hunter tracking prey. The window rolled down, and that voice, gravelly, mocking, amused, slithered out. “Well, well. What happened, princess? You ditch the party or get kicked out?”

You turned just enough to see Rafe Cameron in the driver’s seat, one hand lazily draped on the wheel, the other on his thigh. His sharp jaw, slicked-back hair, and that smug grin that always made your stomach twist in the worst possible way. You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off, Rafe.”

“You always say that right before you say yes.” You kept walking. He rolled forward in pace with you, tires whispering against the stone. “I’m serious,” you said. “Not in the mood.” “But you’re drinking vodka, crying down Topper’s driveway. Don’t act like you’ve got anywhere better to be.”

You stopped. Turned. He leaned toward the window, eyes gleaming, like he already knew you’d give in. “You want a ride?” he asked, voice lower, more sincere now. “Just a ride. Come on. I’ll get you out of here.” You hated him. God, you hated him. But not as much as you hated yourself for climbing in.

~

The moment you sat down, slamming the door shut, the silence buzzed. Heavy. Tense. Rafe didn’t drive off immediately. He just looked at you, scanning your bare thighs, the angry twist of your lips, the way you gripped the bottle like a lifeline. “What’d he say to you?” he asked after a moment. You stared forward. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me,” he said. “But I like knowing what finally made you realise he’s a fucking joke.” You snorted. “You’re one to talk.” “Sure,” he said, tilting his head. “But at least I fuck like I mean it.” You turned to him sharply, lips parting. “Fuck you.” “You trying to?” You didn’t answer. His eyes dropped to your legs again.

Your skirt had ridden up—just a little—your thighs glowing under the soft lights of his dashboard. “Say it,” he said. You hated how breathless you felt. “Say what?” “That you want it. Say you want me.” Your fingers dug into the vodka bottle, but you didn’t drink.

Your eyes met his, and something snapped between you—tension that had been waiting to boil over since the first time you looked at Rafe Cameron and thought about what it would be like to be bad for once. Your seatbelt was off before you realised it. You climbed over the console, your knees on either side of his lap, your skirt bunched around your hips.

“Happy now?” you breathed against his mouth. He grabbed your waist, hard. “You have no fucking idea.”The kiss was brutal—angry, hot, messy. Teeth, tongue, hands. His fingers dug into your ass, your thighs, your hips, tugging you closer until your core ground down against the thick bulge in his pants.

You moaned into his mouth, rolling your hips shamelessly. He chuckled darkly, breath hot against your lips. “Topper ever make you this wet?” You shook your head.“Didn’t think so.” He slid your panties aside and groaned at the slick heat waiting for him. “You’re dripping,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Fucking ruined already.” You fumbled with his belt, desperate and trembling, and he helped you, impatient now, freeing his cock with one hand as the other kept you locked to him. You didn’t wait. You sank down on him with a gasp, and he bit out your name like it hurt. “Jesus fuck, you’re tight.”

You braced yourself on his shoulders, thighs shaking as he filled you, stretching you in the backseat of a Mercedes parked halfway down Topper Thornton’s driveway. It was disgusting. It was perfect. “Ride me,” he ordered, voice low, strained. “Come on. Show me what he’s missing.” You did.

You moved hard, fast, the sounds of skin slapping and breath hitching and windows fogging filling the car like a symphony. Rafe’s hands moved under your top, yanking your bra down, mouthing at your tits like he wanted to mark you. His teeth grazed your nipple, and you cried out, bucking harder.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let them hear you.”You could’ve sworn you were close—so close—when it happened. A knock. Sharp. Three times. You froze. Your whole body stiffened around Rafe, who only smirked, not stopping his slow thrusts up into you. “Wh—” you choked out, panicked. The knock came again. A voice followed.

“Yo—Rafe? What the fuck, man? You okay?” Topper. Still outside. Knocking. Rafe grinned up at you like the devil himself. He reached down, gripping your hips to keep you from pulling off him. “Keep quiet,” he whispered. But you couldn’t. You were shaking, breathless, dizzy. Topper knocked again.

“Dude, what the fuck—did you see Y/n? I swear she just walked down here.” You let out the softest whimper as Rafe snapped his hips up into you. You gasped. “Rafe?!” Silence. Then—curiosity. Another knock. And then you sat up. Hair messy. Chest heaving. Lips swollen. Still sitting on Rafe’s cock, thighs glistening.

He tasted faintly of saltwater and the spearmint gum you’d stolen from his pocket. Every time his lips brushed yours, the world beyond the boat felt like it didn’t exist. “Someone’s getting bold,” you teased, breathless against his mouth when he deepened the kiss. His smirk was quick, crooked. “What, you think I’m scared of being caught?”

His thumb skimmed the inside of your thigh, and you felt your pulse jump. You laughed softly, tugging him closer by his shirt collar. “Well, you should be. You know Topper doesn’t have a clue about us yet.” Rafe’s lips brushed your jaw, the words low and smug. “Then maybe he should find out.” You didn’t get a chance to retort.

The sound of an approaching engine made you freeze. Rafe pulled back just slightly, brow furrowing, but you could already recognise the white-and-blue hull cutting toward you across the channel. Rafe pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing. “That’s—” You didn’t even have to look. “Topper’s boat,” you groaned, shoving at his chest.

“Move!” Sure enough, a few seconds later, the familiar voice rang out over the water. “Yo! Sis! What are you—” Topper’s words cut off mid-shout as his eyes landed squarely on you and Rafe, your legs hooked lazily around his hips, his hand still resting very obviously high on your thigh.

You swore under your breath. Rafe, on the other hand, didn’t move an inch, if anything, his grip on you tightened just enough to make a point. Topper blinked, glanced between the two of you, and then leaned back with an incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rafe finally spoke, slow and deliberate. “Surprise.” “Surprise?” Topper barked out a laugh. “That’s what we’re calling it? I leave you alone for two weeks and you’re out here playing Titanic with my little sister?” You groaned and covered your face with your hands. “Can you just- go away?”

“Go away?” Topper repeated, grinning. “Not a chance. This is my new favourite piece of gossip.” Without waiting for permission, he tossed a rope across and hopped onto your deck. “Top—” you started, but he was already looking between the two of you like he’d stumbled onto buried treasure.

“So how long has this been going on?” he asked, folding his arms. Rafe didn’t hesitate. “Couple months.” “Couple—” You whipped your head toward him. “Rafe!” “What?” he said innocently, as if he hadn’t just blown your secret wide open. Topper’s grin only widened.

“Couple months, huh? And you didn’t think to tell me? Your best friend?” He looked at you like he’d just solved some elaborate mystery. “Oh my God, this makes so much sense. The disappearing acts. The weird excuses. That time you left the bonfire early—” You stood up, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the rail.

“Alright, enough. Off my boat.”Topper laughed, leaning just enough to keep you from actually shoving him overboard. “Fine, fine. But just so you know—” He shot Rafe a pointed look. “This is gonna be so much fun to bring up in front of Kelce.” Rafe finally cracked a grin, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

When you walked into your house, Rafe was sitting on the couch, fresh from practice. His team-issued Cowboys shorts clung to his thighs, his jersey discarded on the armrest, and his tablet sat in his lap as he reviewed plays. He barely looked up at first—until he noticed the way you were practically buzzing in the doorway.

“Hey, baby. You’re home early,” he muttered, his voice casual but his eyes narrowing at the way you hovered, your chest rising and falling too fast. “What’s goin’ on?” You dropped the duffel bag at his feet with a dramatic little thud, unable to hold it in any longer. “I made it,” you blurted, the words tumbling out all at once.

“I’m officially a DCC, Rafe. I’m on the team.” His head snapped up so fast the tablet nearly slid off his lap. “No way,” he said, half-disbelieving, half-grinning, as he leaned forward. “You’re serious? You’re on the team?” You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes as you laughed breathlessly.

“I—I can’t even believe it. I’m one of them. I have the uniform and everything.” He didn’t even let you finish before he was on his feet, hands gripping your face as he kissed you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The tablet clattered to the floor, forgotten.

“That’s my girl, I knew you could do it,” he murmured against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. His voice was low and full of pride. “Holy shit, baby. You did it. You’re a star now.” You giggled, pressing your face to his chest, breathing in the faint smell of his aftershave and cologne.

“I was so nervous. I thought they were gonna cut me. I thought I messed up the jump split.” “Are you kidding?” Rafe pulled back, holding you at arm’s length so he could look at you properly. “You’re one of the most talented girl, on that field, no contest. The second they saw you, they didn’t stand a chance. Hell, they should be payin’ you extra just to stand there and smile.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating up, but his pride made your chest ache in the best way. He bent down to unzip the duffel, his big hands reverent as he pulled out the uniform like it was something sacred. He whistled low under his breath. “Jesus. I don’t know if I should be proud or worried.”

He shot you a crooked grin, holding up the vest to your frame. “You’re really gonna be wearin’ this in front of a stadium full of guys?” “Jealous already?” you teased, nudging his hip. “Damn right,” he said, not even pretending otherwise. But then his grin softened, pride taking over again. “Nah. I’m just proud. I get to say my girl’s a dcc.”

-

The roar of AT&T Stadium was deafening, the air vibrating with the sheer weight of thousands of fans. You were lined up with the other cheerleaders, your white boots gleaming under the stadium lights, pom-poms in your hands, heart hammering against your ribs.

Your smile was pasted on tight, but it wasn’t fake—you were glowing, soaking it in. The music blasted through the speakers, and the crowd erupted as the cheerleaders took the field. You caught a flash of navy and silver out of the corner of your eye. The players were running out of the tunnel, helmets glinting.

You knew exactly which number to look for. #55 Rafe Cameron. He always looked good in uniform, but tonight felt different. Maybe it was because you were both living out the dreams you’d whispered about to each other late at night, back when they’d felt so far away. During the routine, you risked a glance toward the sideline.

Rafe was standing tall with his helmet in hand, eyes scanning the field until they landed on you. Even from that distance, you felt the weight of his gaze. He gave you the smallest, quickest smirk—his way of saying I see you, baby. I’m proud of you. The game itself was a blur.

You danced until your thighs burned, smiled until your cheeks ached, and when the Cowboys scored, the energy was electric. The cheerleaders exploded in synchronised routines, your pom-poms flashing under the lights. The crowd fed off it, and you felt like you were part of something massive, something bigger than yourself.

By the time the game ended—Cowboys winning, the stadium roaring—you were drenched in sweat, but high on adrenaline. When you finally made it back to the tunnel, Rafe was waiting. Helmet tucked under his arm, jersey grass-stained, cheeks flushed from the game.

He didn’t care that cameras were everywhere, didn’t care that fans were still pouring out. He caught you by the waist and spun you around, laughing. “Look at you,” he said against your ear, breathless, his voice still rough from shouting plays. “My girl, out there stealin’ the show.” You laughed, breath catching as you wrapped your arms around his neck.