Rafey’s Slut ;)

You’d been brushing it off, making excuses to your friends and to yourself. But you couldn’t ignore the way it chipped away at you. How it left you questioning your own worth. Especially not tonight. You’d comr with Ethan, as always. He was your boyfriend, after all. Dated for just under three months now.

A tall, athletic guy, same frat as Rafe, always dressed in something smug and slightly wrinkled. He looked good on paper—good enough for Instagram and for your sisters in Zeta Phi—but something had always felt off. He was hot, sure. Popular, yeah. But he had this biting edge.

That arrogant frat-boy attitude that wore you down little by little. The party was already in full swing by the time you walked in on Ethan’s arm. Zeta girls shrieked from the beer pong table, and some EDM remix of something unrecognisable thudded from the Bluetooth speaker taped to the ceiling.

Ethan veered toward his frat brothers, already scanning for his boys, but you spotted Rafe first—leaning against the kitchen counter with a red cup in his hand and a lit cigarette between his fingers. His eyes caught yours, and for a beat, he held your gaze.

Then his eyes dropped to your bare legs, your heels, the way Ethan’s hand was too tight on your waist. He took a long sip of his drink and looked away. “Hey, Rafe,” you greeted politely as you passed, giving him a small smile. He didn’t smile back, just tipped his head. “You good?”

You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. Rafe was rarely soft like that. Not with most people. But he’d always been different with you. “Yeah. I’m fine.” You bit your lip and followed Ethan deeper into the party. An hour in, you were already tired of pretending.

Tired of laughing at his crude jokes, tired of the way he tugged you close only to ignore you five seconds later. Tired of drinking just to take the edge off the hollow feeling. Then Ethan leaned down, drunk, lips hot against your ear. “Come upstairs with me.” You hesitated. He didn’t notice.

He just pulled you by the wrist and you followed—because that’s what girlfriends do, right? You wanted this to be okay. You wanted tonight to be good. Wanted to feel close to him again. But as soon as he shut the bedroom door behind you, it all fell apart. He didn’t kiss you gently. Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t notice when your breath hitched in your throat or when you froze up beneath his grip. The whole thing was rushed, robotic. He wad rough with his hands, yanked your dress up like it was in the way, not part of you. He muttered filthy things, not out of affection, but like he was trying to degrade you.

You flinched when he slapped your ass too hard. “Don’t be a baby,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You can handle it.” You didn’t say anything. You just stared at the ceiling, cheeks burning, nails digging into your palm. And when it was over—when he zipped up and turned away without a word—you pulled your dress back down with trembling fingers, heart in your throat.

Ethan didn’t even look at you as he grabbed his phone. “I’m gonna head back downstairs,” he muttered. “Fix yourself up before you come down. You look like a mess.” And just like that, he was gone. No kiss. No comfort. No asking if you were okay. Just a careless dismissal.

You sat on the edge of the bed for maybe thirty seconds, blinking fast. Your throat burned. You smoothed down your dress, fingers trembling. And when you opened the door, you barely noticed Rafe coming out of the bathroom across the hall—until he caught your arm.

You froze. Rafe’s blue eyes flicked across your face—puffy, streaked with silent tears. “Y/n.” He said your name like a warning. Like a vow. Like the sound alone broke something in him. “Hey. Hey, hey,” he said quickly, stepping in front of you before you could duck away. “What happened?” You tried to keep walking. “I’m fine.”

“Stop.” His hand caught your wrist, not hard, but firm. “Tell me what happened.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shook yout head. “We just… it wasn’t—Ethan and I—” You blinked down at the floor. “He was just really mean.” Rafe’s entire body stiffened. “Did he touch you?” His voice dropped an octave, deadly quiet. “Did he hurt you?”

“He didn’t hit me,” you said quickly. “It’s not like that. He just… he was cold. Like I didn’t even matter. Like I was just some body to him. And then he left. Told me to fix myself up.” You looked up at him, cheeks flushed. “I feel disgusting.” Rafe’s nostrils flared. His jaw ticked, and his fingers curled into a fist so tight you swore his knuckles would split.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” “Rafe—” “No. I let this go on too long. I should’ve said something months ago.” You swallowed. “Said what?” He looked at you then. Like you were the only thing in the entire world. “That he’s never deserved you. Not for a fucking second.” You stared at him, heart thundering. “You really think that?”

He stepped closer, slow, voice gentler now. “I’ve thought that since the first time I saw you two together. I watched him treat you like an accessory. Like a status symbol.”Rafe’s eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “And it made me sick.” You blinkrd. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to be the guy who makes a move on his friend’s girl. But I’ve been biting my fucking tongue for weeks, watching you show up to every party looking like that and seeing him look right past you. Like you were a prop.” He exhaled hard, stepping back. “I’m not letting him hurt you again.”

“Rafe—wait—what are you—?” But he was already turning. Already storming down the stairs. You followed, heart in your throat. The party was still going, but there was a shift in the air. The music seemed quieter, the laughter more hesitant. And then Rafe found Ethan. He didn’t waste time.

Grabbed him by the collar in front of the beer pong table and slammed him against the wall. The room went silent. “Rafe, what the fuck—” “What the fuck did you do to her?” Rafe spat, voice loud and rough. “She came out of your room crying. What the hell did you say to her?”

“Dude, we fucked,” Ethan scoffed, pushing Rafe off. “It’s not that deep.” Wrong answer. Rafe slammed him again. “You think that’s fucking normal? Leaving a girl crying on the bed? Talking to her like she’s trash?” “She’s sensitive,” Ethan snapped. “You know how girls are.” The way Rafe punched him—it wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t controlled. It was personal. A messy, wild hook that cracked across Ethan’s jaw and sent him stumbling back into the wall. The crowd gasped. “Rafe!” you shouted, running forward. But he didn’t move. Just stood there, chest heaving, hand bloody, jaw clenched.

“You don’t talk about her like that,” Rafe growled. “Not ever again. She’s better than you in every way. And you—” He sneered. “You’re not even man enough to say sorry.” Ethan wiped blood from his lip, glared at him, but didn’t swing back. He knew better. No one would back him.

~

He found you on the porch ten minutes later. You were sitting on the wooden step, arms wrapped around your knees, the night air cooling your skin. He crouched beside you slowly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “If I scared you. Or embarrassed you.” You shook your head. “You didn’t. I just… I didn’t expect you to care.”

He looked at you like you’d just spoken another language. “How could I not care?” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. So he kept talking, softer now. “I meant what I said. Every word of it.” “I know.” “And I’m not trying to pressure you. But… if there ever comes a day where you want something different. Something better.”

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.

You. And the deckhand. Daniel or whatever his name was. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Barely older than an intern. Tan skin, messy blond hair, built from the constant work—but Rafe had clocked the way his eyes flicked, the way he stumbled over his tasks whenever you were near.

And you, in your oblivious way, were making it worse. You padded barefoot across the teak deck, your bikini nothing but tiny triangles of silk tied at your hips. You leaned against the railing, your drink sweating in your hand, chatting with the boy as if he weren’t nearly drooling.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. The whole point of chartering the yacht was privacy. He could afford to buy out the entire staff if he wanted, but he hadn’t thought it necessary. Now, watching the way the deckhand’s eyes flicked down your legs, Rafe was regretting not paying extra for an older, less impressionable crew.

You turned and made your way back toward him, hips swaying naturally, completely unaware—or maybe too aware—of the effect you had. You dropped onto the lounger beside him, brushing your leg against his as though you hadn’t noticed the storm building in his eyes. “Why are you sulking?” you asked lightly, sipping your drink.

“Not sulking.” His voice was clipped, low. “Just wondering how much longer I’ve gotta sit here and watch that kid stare at you like he’s never seen a woman before.” You froze, then let out a laugh. “You’re serious?” “Dead serious.” Rafe’s eyes cut toward the boy, who was now scrubbing the railing with unnecessary vigour.

“He’s been staring since you stepped on the boat.” “Rafe,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “He’s literally doing his job. You think every man who looks in my general direction wants me.” “That’s because they do,” he shot back instantly, his gaze snapping back to you.

“You walk around here in that bikini—” his gaze swept deliberately down the line of your body, unhurried, “—and you really think he’s not staring? You think I don’t notice?” You bristled, though heat curled low in your stomach at his bluntness. “He’s just a kid, Rafe. You’re being dramatic.”

“‘M not dramatic,” he countered, his hand settling firmly on your thigh, thumb pressing into your skin. You swatted him lightly, though you didn’t move his hand. “We’re supposed to be relaxing. No stress, no fights. And definitely no scaring the crew half to death.” But Rafe wasn’t backing down. “He’s got no business looking at you like that,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“That’s for me. Not for him.” His bluntness made your stomach flip in that way it always did when his jealousy turned possessive. You exhaled, feigning exasperation. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, leaning back against the lounger, though the corner of your mouth betrayed a smile. Rafe caught it instantly.

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.

Her makeup soft, posture trying not to shrink beside your ex-husband. Rafe was on the porch, arms folded across his chest. Hair pushed back, white linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, half-buttoned like he didn’t care. Still wore the watch you gave him. He looked like the kind of man women wrote about in sad little journald.

Sofia said something to him. He didn’t answer. His eyes were on you. Of course they were. You stepped out, slow, deliberate. Two little doors slammed behind you. “Mommy, can I bring my Elsa dress next time?” Luca asked, skipping to your side.

“You can bring a Birkin for all I care, baby,” you said, brushing a curl from her cheek. “If your father lets you wear it, that’s his problem.” Rue was already dragging her glittery overnight bag toward the steps like she owned the place.

Sofia’s eyes followed them. You clocked it immediately—the hesitation, the smile she rehearsed in the mirror. Rafe didn’t move, not until you were halfway to them. “Hey,” he said, throat dry. “Rafe,” you replied, bored. The way you always said his name like it tasted sour. Sofia smiled nervously. And you turned your attention on her.

You pushed your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough to look her dead in the eyes. “I’m Sofia,” she said, extending a hand you didn’t take. You looked at it like it was an accident. “You can relax,” you said coolly. “This isn’t a meet-the-family situation. It’s a custody hand-off.” Her face twitched, just a flicker, but it was enough.

Rafe gave you a look. You didn’t acknowledge it. “Girls,” you said sweetly, gesturing to her. “This is your dad’s… friend.” The girls blinked up at her, unimpressed. “Hi, I’m Sofia,” she tried again, crouching to their level. “It’s really nice to meet you. Your dresses are so cute!” Rue blinked. “Mommy also says Daddy has a type.” Sofia looked confused.

“What type?” Luca chimed in, deadpan. “The forgettable kind.” You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to. Sofia’s smile flickered. “That’s… um. That’s funny.” “No, it’s not,” Luca said flatly. You finally let the laugh slip then—low, amused, indulgent. Rafe looked like he was going to throttle something. “Sofia,” you said, stepping closer, lowering your sunglasses entirely, “I’m sure Rafe told you how this works.” Her lips parted.

“How… what works?” You leaned in. “You’re the girl after the wife. The placeholder. The space-filler. You don’t speak to them like you’re anything more than a name they’ll forget by Christmas. You don’t discipline. You don’t play therapist. And you don’t try to be the cool new thing in their lives. They’re not interested. You don’t make parenting decisions. And you certainly don’t try to impress me.”

There was a pause so loud it pressed into everyone’s ears. Rafe finally broke it. “Girls, why don’t you take your bags upstairs?” he said, throat tight. They bolted. Once the girls were gone, Rafe turned to you. “You really had to do that?” You shrugged. “If you’re gonna let her play stepmom, she better come correct.”

“She was just trying to be polite.” “And I was just reminding her I don’t share.” His jaw ticked. “You’re not my wife anymore.” You stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t lie to yourself, Rafe. You’d still take me back tomorrow if I let you.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even blink.

Sofia stood there frozen, and you smiled at her one last time. “Good luck, sweetheart.” Then you turned on your heel, Louboutins clicking back down the driveway like a victory parade. You climbed into the G-Wagon, slipped your sunglasses back on, and drove off without another glance.

Normally, he’d at least throw a sarcastic remark your way, but instead, he just tilted his head and studied you with that annoyingly calm expression—like he was reading you, not your words. He let the little jabs pass, which only irritated you more.

By the time night fell, you were curled up on the sofa in one of his oversized hoodies, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. You didn’t even register the sound of the front door closing until he walked back in, carrying a little bag you couldn’t quite see.

“Where’d you go?” you asked flatly, not even looking up at first. “Pharmacy,” he said casually, setting his keys down. You frowned, finally glancing at him. “Do we even need anything from the pharmacy?”

Instead of answering right away, he sat down beside you and placed the bag gently in your lap. You shot him a suspicious look before peeking inside—and froze. Tampons. Your favourite chocolate bars. The heating pad brand you always swore by.

Even a box of the chamomile tea you drank religiously that week every month. Your eyes snapped up to his face. “Rafe… what the hell is this?” He just shrugged like it was obvious. “For your period. You’ve been snappy all day. I figured it’s either that or you secretly hate me.” His smirk widened, teasing, but his tone was warm.

“And I’m betting on your period.” You blinked at him, mouth opening and closing. “That’s—” you paused, torn between outrage at being called out and warmth that he’d noticed at all. “I wasn’t even that bad!” Rafe chuckled low, leaning closer until his nose brushed your temple.

“Baby, you threatened me over toast this morning.” That earned him a reluctant laugh from you, cheeks warming as you shook your head. “You’re so sweet,” you say, your voice fond now. He sat on the edge of the sofa, brushing his hand through your hair.

“That and I just know you too well.” That was all it took for you to melt, scooting closer and curling into his side, resting your head against his chest. His arm wrapped around you instantly, warm and steady, like it had been waiting for you to give in.

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.