Ria!

“you’ve been looking for me all night.”

confusion settles over you immediately because the accusation feels so strange. of course you’ve been looking for him. he’s your boyfriend. he literally picked you up so you could be here tonight.

the idea that he’d be annoyed by that doesn’t even occur to you until you catch the way topper’s attention shifts between the two of you, along with the subtle quieting of the conversation around him.

“i mean, i was just trying to find you,” you tell him.

rafe smiles and runs his palm across his buzzed head, looking every bit as frustrated as he has all evening. except now, instead of whatever has been bothering him all day, all of that frustration seems to have landed squarely on your shoulders.

“no, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” he says, “you’re always trying to find me.”

your stomach sinks. people are listening now, you know they are.

you can see it in the way conversations nearby begin to slow, or the way somebody glances over their shoulder before quickly looking away.

somehow none of that feels as important as the expression on rafe’s face, though. while everyone else fades into the background, your attention stays fixed entirely on him, searching for some indication that he’s going to stop, realize what he’s saying, and walk it back.

instead, he keeps going.

“you’re always texting me, always asking where i am, always asking what i’m doing,” he says, throwing one hand out in exasperation. “you don’t have to be attached to me every second of the day.”

your entire body gives a small involuntary flinch, not because he moves toward you or because you’re scared of him, but because hearing something like that from the person whose opinion matters most to you feels a little like missing a step in the dark.

you stare at him. that’s all you can do.

suddenly you’re replaying every interaction you’ve had over the past few months, wondering which part of it annoyed him this much.

was it the good morning texts? the calls? asking if he’d made it home safely after disappearing for hours? was it showing up when he asked you to? sitting beside him when he was in a bad mood? listening to him complain about his father, his life, his problems, and everything else? none of it had ever felt excessive to you. it had just felt like a relationship.

for the first time since you’ve known him, rafe seems to realize how bad what he said actually sounded, but just for a split second. the anger on his face falters slightly, uncertainty slipping through the cracks, but by then the damage is already done.

there are too many people standing around, too many eyes watching, and too much pride keeping either of you from pretending the moment never happened.

the lump in your throat makes it difficult to speak. still, you manage.

“okay.” the word comes out quiet enough that he almost doesn’t hear it. you don’t argue or try to defend yourself.

you simply nod once, forcing yourself to hold his gaze for another second before looking away, and somehow that hurts him far more than any argument probably would have. because for the first time all night, you’re not trying to reach him anymore.

the drive home that night is quieter than rafe expected, not because of what happened earlier. if anything, he almost wishes you were arguing back to him. arguments are familiar territory. he knows how to handle yelling and angry words and people fighting back.

what he doesn’t know how to handle is silence. after your small, quiet okay at the party, you never bring it up again.

you don’t ask him why he said it. you don’t just tell him he embarrassed you. you don’t even demand an apology or make him explain himself. you simply retreat into yourself, staring out the passenger window. a few times he glances over, almost expecting you to say something, but you never do.

eventually his grip tightens around the steering wheel as irritation replaces the guilt. if you’re upset, then be upset. if you’re angry, then say something. instead, you just sit there, and by the time he drops you off, he’s convinced himself the entire thing wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt.

the next morning feels strangely peaceful.

his phone isn’t lighting up every few hours. there isn’t a text waiting for him when he wakes up or a notification asking if he slept well, if he’s busy today, or if he wants to do something later.

at first, he barely notices. if anything, a part of him feels relieved.

isn't this what he wanted? space? room to breathe?

for the first couple of days, that’s exactly how he frames it in his head. he spends his time doing whatever he wants, going wherever he wants, and never once has to answer a question about where he’s been. every now and then he catches himself expecting a text to come through, but when it doesn’t, he simply tosses his phone aside and moves on.

it isn’t until the third day that the silence starts feeling less like freedom and more like something missing, because it isn’t just the texts. it’s everything.

it’s the fact that you don’t stop by tannyhill after being nearby, or that he doesn’t hear your name from rose asking if you’re coming over, or ward wondering if you’re joining them for dinner.

somehow you’d become woven into the routine of his life so gradually that he never noticed it happening, and now every missing piece sticks out.

he keeps expecting things to go back to normal on their own, and keeps expecting you to call first like you always do. he just keeps expecting you to show up, but each day passes exactly like the one before it.

then a week goes by. by that point, he’s checking his phone more than he’d ever admit out loud.

not texting you. he’s not that desperate. at least that’s what he tells himself. he’s just looking, just seeing if maybe you posted something, or if maybe you called while he wasn’t paying attention.

just seeing if maybe—

nothing.

which is why your name slips out so casually one afternoon that even he doesn’t realize he’s asking about you until it’s too late.

he’s sitting with topper and kelce outside the country club, all three of them halfway through a conversation that started about boats and somehow turned into making fun of one of the kook guys they know. laughter circles the table, and for a few minutes rafe almost forgets about the irritating little knot that’s been sitting in his chest all week.

then he reaches for his drink and says, “where’s y/n been?”

the laughter dies immediately. kelce blinks and topper looks up. for a second neither of them answers, because of all people, why would they know?

“what?” kelce asks.

rafe grins like he doesn’t understand. “what do you mean ‘what’?”

“you just asked where y/n’s been.”

“yeah.”

another pause. topper and kelce exchange a glance.

rafe immediately notices, and immediately hates it. “what?” he asks.

“nothing,” topper says.

“then answer the question.”

topper leans back slightly. “i don’t know. i think she was down at the wreck yesterday.”

rafe’s eyes narrow. “the wreck?”

“yeah.”

“with who?”

kelce lets out a short laugh. “how are we supposed to know?”

rafe ignores him, his attention staying fixed on topper.

topper shrugs. “some friends, i guess.”

“what friends?”

this time both of them stare at him, and rafe doesn’t understand why. the questions seem perfectly reasonable.

he’s your boyfriend, or at least he thinks he still is.

asking where you are shouldn’t feel weird, and asking who you’ve been spending time with shouldn’t earn him these looks. at least this is what he thinks in his own head.

“i don’t know, man,” topper says slowly. “i just heard she was there.”

rafe’s jaw tightens, “like, all day?”

“i guess.”

“she was there the day before too, then,” kelce adds. “pretty sure i saw her when i was driving through.”

that piece of information settles uncomfortably in rafe’s chest. so for the last two days, while he’s been sitting around waiting for some sign of life from you, you’ve apparently been out enjoying yourself.

the realization annoys him far more than it should. he tells himself it’s because it’s weird. maybe ‘cause it’s different. after months of knowing exactly where you are and what you’re doing, the sudden lack of information feels unfamiliar.

deep down, though, he knows that’s not the reason. the real reason is that he’d expected you to be upset and miss him. instead, every report he’s hearing now makes it sound like you’re doing perfectly fine without him.

that night, the thought follows him home, and then into his bedroom, and then into the early hours of the morning.

he ends up sprawled across his bed with one arm behind his head and his phone balanced against his chest, staring at the ceiling. every few minutes he unlocks his screen or checks the time. he finds himself opening the same apps for absolutely no reason before locking the phone again.

but eventually he gives up pretending. his thumb presses against your contact. he stares at your contact photo and the message thread that’s been dead for over a week. then he backs out, opens your location instead. the map loads.

you’re not home. his foot starts bouncing immediately. he tells himself he doesn’t care, he’s obviously only looking because he’s curious. right? because it’d be weird not to wonder. because—

you’re at the movies.

the realization irritates him instantly. movies with who? how many people are there with you? when did that plan even get made? how come he didn’t know about it?

his thumb pinches the screen, zooming in on the little circle as if the answer might magically appear if he looks hard enough, but he knows it doesn’t. all it tells him is that you’re somewhere having fun. somewhere that isn’t with him.

every bit of these thoughts trace back to one stupid night and one stupid argument that he can’t stop replaying no matter how badly he wants to. because the more he thinks about it, the more details come back - the way you’d looked at him and didn’t argue. you’d just looked hurt.

rafe shifts against the headboard. your location is still pulled up on his screen, somewhere near the beach tonight, probably with friends.

his jaw tightens, loosens, then tightens again. it almost makes him angry. reaching out means admitting something, that he was wrong and that he misses hearing from you.

eventually, the silence wins. or maybe it loses. he isn’t sure anymore. all he knows is that his thumb finally presses against the keyboard.

he starts typing something longer before deleting it immediately, starts again, then deletes that too. nothing sounds right. in the end, he settles on the only thing he can manage.

rafe stares at the message for a second before he finally hits send. the delivered notification appears almost instantly, and for the first time in weeks, the waiting belongs to him.

‘ are you busy? ’

and just seconds later, your read receipts pick up below his message.