A/n: uhh so this is like a series but not a series kinda. Blurbs r kinda hard to think of rn. But I’ll defs come up with smth!!! Enjoy

🥊 ᕼOᗯ TᕼEY ᗰEET

| 2

your phone buzzes on your desk at 4:56 PM.

you're halfway through folding laundry when the vibration makes you freeze, a t-shirt dangling from your hands. you pick it up expecting a text from a friend, but your stomach drops the second you see rafe's name.

Pack a bag.

you stare at it. read it twice. three times. your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don't ask what for. you don't ask where or why or how long. you just know.

are you serious

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

Very.

oh god. your heart is actually racing now.

you press your phone to your chest and let out a breathless laugh that's half excitement, half panic. you want this so badly your hands are shaking. but the thought of lying to your parents makes something twist in your stomach. you glance at the time. 4:59 PM. if you're going to do this, you have got to move fast. there's a really big chance that you can't pull this off. an even bigger chance that your mom shuts it down. but you're willing to try.

it takes you twenty minutes to come up with something believable. a trip to the mainland last minute with stella from your old sociology class. her friend bailed. you'd be back tomorrow evening. that's believable, right? you practice it four times in the mirror, watching your own face for tells. you look nervous and giddy. way too fucking giddy. you try again, aiming for casual, but casual isn't happening.

you pull your duffel bag out from under your bed and start packing, grabbing a change of clothes and the cute pajamas, the ones that don't look like you're trying too hard, your toothbrush and deodorant and phone charger. your hands hesitate over your underwear drawer, but you grab a matching set, just in case, and shove it to the bottom of the bag where your mom wouldn't see it if she happened to glance inside. god, that would be embarrassing.

downstairs, you can hear the tv on in the living room, your dad's low voice asking your mom something about dinner. you zip the bag shut and stand there for a second, staring at it. this is actually happening.

your mom is easier to convince than you expected. she's loading the dishwasher when you come downstairs, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. "hey, so stella from one of my old classes just texted. her friend bailed on this trip to the mainland and she asked if i wanted to go. i know it's last minute, but—"

your mom glances up, wiping her hands on a towel. "tonight?"

"yeah. she could come pick me up now. i'd be back tomorrow afternoon or so..."

she looks at you for a long moment, and your heart hammers against your ribs. please don't ask more questions. please don't look closer.

"stella... from college?"

"yeah."

"and you'll text me when you get there?"

"of course." immediately.

she smiles. "okay... have fun, sweetie. be safe. and text me when you get there, okay?"

the ease of it almost makes you feel worse. "i will. thanks, mom." you kiss her cheek and head for the door before she can ask any more questions, before the lie can show on your face and ruin everything.

by 5:30 PM, you're standing on the corner a block away from your house, duffel bag at your feet, phone clutched in your hand. the sun is starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. the neighborhood is quiet. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. you shift your weight from foot to foot, your leg bouncing slightly. you check your phone. 5:31. then 5:32. what if he doesn't show up? or what if he changed his mind? what if—

then you see it—his black truck, pulling up beneath the shade of the oaks, windows tinted dark. relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. you'd recognize it anywhere. you grab your bag and hurry down the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder once, twice, before yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.

the cool air hits you immediately. the ac is cranked high, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his black ice scented car freshener. the leather seat is cool beneath your thighs. the door closes with a solid thunk.

rafe is leaning back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. he's wearing a linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. he looks casual. so unfairly casual.

he doesn't pull away from the curb yet. instead he just looks at you. his eyes move down your face to your hands gripping the bag, then back up. his mouth curves into a smirk.

"look at you," he murmurs, his voice low. "sneakin' away like a little criminal."

heat floods your cheeks instantly. you drop your bag to the floorboards and fumble with your seatbelt, trying not to meet his eyes. your fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated. he's watching you. "i'm not—"

"no?"

you freeze. he's still watching you, that smirk fully formed now.

"checkin' over your shoulder like that?" he says, tilting his head slightly. his eyes drop to your hands where they're fumbling with the seatbelt, then back to your face. "trembling."

"i am not trembling."

"yeah, you are."

you bite your lip, fighting a smile. he's impossible. "c'mere," he says, and his voice drops, and you don't hesitate. you lean across the console and kiss him, hard and desperate. the leather of the seat creaks slightly beneath you. you can taste the faint hint of coffee on his mouth. your fingers find his shoulders and for a second you forget why you were even nervous.

you lean in again, throwing your arms around his neck, peppering soft, quick kisses along his jaw. he smiles against your skin. you kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips, and he's making a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to cup your face.

"hi," he says against your mouth, teasing.

you pull back just far enough to look at him, your face flushed. "hi yourself," you murmur, and he grins before kissing you properly again, deeper this time.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. his hand smooths down your back, his thumb tracing small circles against your spine.

"been waitin' all day for that," he murmurs against your lips.

you pull back just enough to look at him, your face flushed. "yeah?"

"yeah." his eyes are dark. "you?"

"maybe," you say, trying to play it cool, but he sees right through you. he always does.

he starts to protest, but then his eyes are catching on your hair falling across your shoulder and his hand moves, tucking it back behind your ear. his fingers linger there for a second, warm against your skin.

"what?" you ask, breathless.

"mm, nothin'." he's still looking at you like he lost his train of thought, but then he blinks. "you smell good."

"rafe—"

"you do." he's laughing now—quiet, rough. 

you bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he wraps his arms around you properly, his hand smoothing up your back. you feel him smile against your hair.

"alright," he says after a moment, and his hand slides down to your waist, squeezes once. "sit back before your neighbors see something they shouldn't."

you obey reluctantly, buckling yourself in, and he's still watching you with that amused expression. he shifts the car into drive, one hand returning to the wheel while the other finds your thigh, his palm warm against your skin.

the neighborhood disappears behind you, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

the drive starts familiar, your neighborhood with its modest coastal cottages and beach box houses. rafe's hand stays on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns. god, his hands are huge. after a few minutes, he glances over at you.

"you're quiet," he says.

you bite your lip, staying silent for a moment. "i lied to my mom."

"figured. what'd you tell her?"

"just... a really elaborate lie. about going to the mainland with stella. she believed me immediately and i guess now i feel—" you exhale shakily. "kinda guilty?"

his hand squeezes your thigh gently. "want me to turn around?"

"no," you say quickly, maybe too quickly. the thought of turning around makes your chest clench. and he smiles, like he already knew that would be your answer.

"then stop worryin' about it."

"easy for you to say."

"sweetheart." his voice is patient. "you're twenty-three."

"yeah," you mutter. "but you're thirty nine."

he doesn't argue with that. he just keeps driving, his hand warm on your leg. you watch the scenery change outside the window, the neighborhoods becoming progressively nicer. after a moment you reach down and lace your fingers through his. he glances at you again, something soft crossing his face, and brings your joined hands up to brush a kiss against your knuckles.

"you nervous?"

"a little," you admit. your stomach's been in knots since you got in the truck.

"yeah?" he says, his mouth curving slightly. "good. means you're gonna hold onto me the whole drive."

you roll your eyes but you're smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. you look out the window and watch as the landscape begins to shift. the houses get bigger, set farther back from the street. gated communities with brick columns and wrought iron. the kind of places where you definitely don't belong.

"wait," you say, sitting up straighter. "this is where you live? like, this area?"

"further north," he says.

"of course you do," you murmur, and he laughs—low and genuine. that's where almost all of the wealthy people live. the absolute northernmost area of the island.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothing. just..." you gesture vaguely at the massive houses passing by. "very you. very well off person who has everything figured out."

"very me," he repeats, smirking. "that an insult?"

"no. i just mean—" you're fumbling now. heat is creeping up your neck. "you probably have like a… a fountain, or something don't you?"

he doesn't answer, which is answer enough. you groan and cover your face with your free hand.

"oh my god. you do."

"came with the house," he says, and there's that edge again, like he was waiting for you to notice.

"rafe. nobody's house just comes with a fountain."

"mine did."

you're laughing now, and his hand tightens on yours. the streetlights get fewer and farther between. the trees grow taller, older, spanish moss dripping from the branches. you watch it all pass through the tinted window, hyperaware of the way his thumb is tracing circles against your palm.

"how much further?" you ask after a while.

"ten minutes."

your stomach flips. ten minutes until you're actually at his house. ten minutes until this stops being theoretical. you nod and look back out the window, biting the inside of your cheek. the road narrows. suddenly there are no more houses at all—just dense forest on either side.

"rafe?"

"yeah?"

"is it... big? your house?"

he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. "figured you'd see for yourself."

"that's not an answer."

"you'll see in a minute."

"that's not reassuring," you mutter, and he laughs again, his hand leaving yours only to slide higher up your thigh. your breath catches slightly.

"you think too much," he says.

"no i don't."

"yeah, you do." he glances at you. "can hear it from here."

you huff, but you're smiling. "well, excuse me for being a little nervous about seeing where you live for the first time. seems like it deserves a reasonable amount of overthinking."

"why?"

"because—" you falter, searching for the words. your heart is actually pounding now. "because i've never been to your house before. because i don't know what to expect. because—"

"hey." his voice is lower now, and his hand squeezes your thigh. "s'just a house."

"yeah... with a fountain."

"i told you, it came with—"

"i know what you said," you interrupt, grinning despite yourself. "i'm just saying... it doesn't sound like just a house. it sounds like a place where people like me don't really... fit."

he's quiet for a moment. then the trees break, and you see it: the ocean, dark and endless, the last of the sunset turning the water to gold.

"oh," you breathe.

rafe's hand tightens on your thigh. "almost there."

you can't look away from the water. you've always known he had money. you'd have to be blind not to notice the car, the watch, the way he never looks at a price tag. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

he turns onto a private drive, oyster shells crunching under the tires. the forest opens up into something softer. sea grass and palmetto palms and flowering bushes you don't know the names of. it feels impossible to believe that there's a spot in a place like this for a girl like you.

"you alright over there?" he asks quietly, his eyes still on the road but his hand finding your thigh again.

you nod, not trusting your voice. your throat feels tight.

and then you see it. his house rising up ahead, low and modern with clean lines and huge windows that catch the last of the light. white siding, dark wood, a wraparound porch. there's a fountain in the circular drive.

you sit there, staring. this is his house. he actually lives here.

"told you," he says. "came with the house."

you let out a breathless laugh, but you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, already climbing out. the air smells like salt and jasmine and moss. the ocean is louder here.

rafe's already beside you, taking your duffel bag from your hand. "c'mon, baby."

he unlocks the front door and you follow him inside, and your breath catches. the space opens up in front of you: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that looks expensive but lived-in. warm wood floors beneath your feet. the kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, and the entire back wall is glass.

but that's not what makes you stop in your tracks.

it's the sneakers by the door. one tipped over on its side. the heel scuffed. the coffee mug on the side table—there's still liquid inside it. cold by now, probably. the book left open on the arm of the couch, pages down. the spine is creased, well-loved. a hoodie draped over the back of a kitchen chair, slate grey. mail stacked on the console table. a ceramic bowl filled with keys. coins scattered among them. a receipt folded in half.

"oh wow," you whisper.

rafe's leaning against the doorframe, watching you. "what?"

"i don't know... you actually live here."

"well, yeah."

"no, i mean—" you gesture at the mug, the book, the shoes. "like you woke up here this morning. you drank coffee. you left a book on the couch. you're just... you exist here."

"yeah, baby." he's grinning now. "i live here."

you turn in a slow circle, taking it in. the throw blanket on the couch, worn smooth in places. the record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you can see the edges of the album covers, the colors faded from sunlight. the way the light hits the kitchen island. there's a pen on the counter, uncapped. a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. the handwriting is unmistakably his—sharp, efficient, organized. there's a small framed photo on the mantle.

it's a much younger him and an older woman. she has his eyes.

"your mom?" you ask, not turning around.

"yeah," he says from behind you. "that's her."

you nod. you're standing in a photo of his life, looking at a photo of his mother, and something about it makes your chest feel tight. you don't know why exactly.

you wander into the kitchen, running your fingers along the cool granite. you open a cabinet without thinking and find glasses that are neatly stacked. you close it quickly, then you open another one. plates. another. bowls. you find a drawer filled with what looks like chaos: takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries, a phone charger with a frayed cord, business cards held together with a rubber band.

"this is a disaster," you say, gesturing at the chaos.

"yeah, well." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "that's where the random shit lives."

he has a junk drawer. like a normal person. and somehow that makes him feel more real.

you keep exploring, walking over to the refrigerator. there are photos held up with magnets. you pull open the fridge. it's surprisingly well-stocked. fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, a few bottles of expensive wine. there's a bottle of your favorite creamer on the second shelf.

"...is this mine?" you ask quietly, reaching for it.

he glances over from where he's started pulling things from the pantry. "hm?"

"the creamer."

"yeah."

your hand goes still. he bought this. he went to the store and bought the specific creamer you like and put it in his fridge knowing—knowing—that you'd eventually open this door and see it.

you don't say anything else. just put it back and close the fridge. your hands feel a little shaky. he just keeps moving, setting things on the counter. olive oil. garlic. a package of fresh pasta. basil in a small pot on the windowsill. he planned this. he really planned this.

"you're gonna cook?" you ask, wandering back over to the island, trying to sound casual.

"thought i'd make dinner." he's already pulling out a cutting board. "that alright with you?"

"yeah, i just—" you climb onto one of the barstools. "i didn't know you cooked."

"i don't really," he says, starting to chop garlic. "at least not all the time."

"so what, do you doordash?" you ask.

he stops chopping and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. "doordash?"

"i don't know." you shrug, smiling sheepishly. "i just thought you maybe had people bring you food or something."

"what am i, ninety?" he says flatly, going back to the garlic.

"you're almost forty."

he stops. looks at you again, his expression something between offended and amused. "that's rude."

you smile, and can't help but giggle. "i've been waiting to use that."

he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, but there's a small smile on his face. "old man," you mutter, and he flicks a piece of garlic at you without even looking.

you laugh again, ducking, and he pours you a glass of wine without asking. he slides it across the counter and you take a sip. it's cold and crisp. you watch him work, the knife against the board, the way he moves through the space like he's done this a thousand times. his forearms tanned and flexing. you take another sip of wine. stop staring.

the smell of garlic hits you suddenly, sharp and pungent, and your mouth waters. he's stirring something, and the pan hisses when he adds more ingredients. the smell becoming richer.

"so you cook couple times a week then?" you ask, genuinely curious now.

"yeah," he says, not looking up from what he's doing. "relaxes me."

you put that away for later. you take another sip of wine and notice him glance at you, then back at the stove.

"how long have you lived here?" you ask.

"couple years."

"do you like it?"

"yeah." he doesn't elaborate.

you wander away from the counter, drawn to the bookshelf in the living room. you run your fingers along the spines. cookbooks, mostly, but also novels you recognize, a few nonfiction titles about business, some memoirs. there's a small ceramic bowl on the shelf, filled with shells and smooth stones. you pick up one of the shells, turning it over in your hands. it's worn soft at the edges. 

"you collect shells?" you call out.

"hm?" he appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "nah. just stuff i find."

you put it back and keep browsing. you find a photo album wedged between two books and pull it out, but you don't open it because that feels too invasive. there's a record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you read the titles, trying to piece together who he is. old soul records sitting next to indie rock sitting next to classical. it doesn't match what you expected.

"you comin' back over here or you gonna take inventory of my whole house?" he calls out.

"just getting to know the place," you call back. you head back to the kitchen anyway, perching on the barstool again.

he's stirred the sauce, added something else. the kitchen smells incredible. your stomach rumbles, and he glances at you, his mouth curving slightly.

"almost ready," he says. "grab some plates from that cabinet." he nods toward one on the far side of the kitchen.

you hop down and pull out two plates, setting them on the counter beside him. he plates the pasta with ease, and without thinking, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "thank you, rafe." you murmur.

he looks momentarily stunned, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he catches your chin with his free hand and tilts your face toward his. he kisses you properly, soft and warm before handing over the plate.

steam rises from it. you take a bite before you even sit back down, and make a small sound of approval without meaning to.

"not bad for a guy who survives on doordash, huh." he says, settling onto the stool next to you.

you laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "i didn't say you survive on doordash. i just—"

"you absolutely implied it."

"okay, fine. i thought you did. clearly i was wrong." you take another bite. "this is actually really good."

he takes a bite of his pasta, watching you. "you taste wine with this?" he asks, nodding at your glass.

"not yet," you take another sip of the wine. the flavors pair perfectly. "oh. wow."

"hm," he says, like that was the obvious choice all along, and goes back to eating.

you eat in comfortable silence for a while. it's easy, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his space, your knee brushing his under the counter. he doesn't move away. if anything, he shifts closer. his hand finds your lower back at one point, stays there for a moment while he reaches for his wine glass with the other, then moves away. he feeds you a bite of his pasta with his fork, watching you carefully as you taste it. your face flushes.

"this is really good," you say after a few minutes, your voice slightly smaller than before.

"you already said that."

"i know. but it is. like, genuinely."

he glances at you, then back at his plate. you watch him for a second, then go back to your own food. there's something intimate about eating together like this, sitting close in his kitchen, the ocean visible through the massive windows behind you.

when you're finished eating, you start to stand, reaching for his plate, but he catches your wrist gently.

"leave it," he says.

"rafe, i can—"

"sweetheart, just leave it."

you hesitate, then sit back down. he stands, rounding the island to rinse his hands in the sink. he leaves the plates where they are, just washes his hands and turns back to you.

"you wanna go for a walk?" he asks.

you look surprised. "now?"

"why not?"

you glance at the plates, then back at him. "the sun's almost gone."

"i know." he's already moving toward the glass doors that lead to the deck. "come on."

you follow him, and he doesn't wait for you to grab shoes. you slip off the barstool and just follow him outside. the air hits you immediately, cooler than this afternoon. salt-laced and clean. the sky is still holding onto the last traces of daylight, deep blue fading to violet at the horizon. the ocean sounds different. louder.

"oh my god," you breathe, stopping to look around. "this is—rafe, this is insane."

"you think so?" he says, and there's that slight curve to his mouth. he's watching you, not the view.

"you just— walk out here whenever you want?"

"pretty much."

you shake your head, laughing. the privilege of it is almost absurd. "you're so lucky. the beach back home is always packed with tourists."

"you can come here whenever you want," he says, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you like he's imagining you here, coming back, making this a habit. "you know that, right?"

"really?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"yeah, baby. any time."

you walk a little further, the water getting closer. the sand is soft and still warm from the day, giving slightly under your weight. it's quiet out here. just you and him and the sound of the ocean.

"wait," you say suddenly, stopping. "do you swim out here?"

he huffs a laugh. "mm, sometimes."

"at night?"

"yeah."

"that's terrifying."

"nah." he tugs you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "it's peaceful. we should sometime."

"it's dark," you counter, but you're grinning now, leaning into him. "what if there's like a shark or something?"

"wouldn't stand a chance against me."

you burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. "you're ridiculous."

"i'm serious." he's grinning too now, catching your hand before you can pull away completely. "what— you think i'm lettin' a shark get you?"

"oh my god, stop—"

but he's already pulling you in, kissing you mid-laugh. his hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt into it immediately. his other hand finds the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. he tastes like salt and wine. when he pulls back you're both smiling, both a little breathless.

he kisses you again, softer this time. "hi," he murmurs, teasing.

you pull back just enough to look at him, feeling heat creep up your neck. "hi," you say sheepishly, and he grins before leaning in to kiss you again—quick pecks along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

you're still catching your breath when he pulls back to look at you. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, slow enough to make your stomach flip.

"jesus..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "look at you." the way he says it makes your cheeks heat up.

"c'mere."

"i'm already here."

"not close enough."

heat floods your face and you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? he smiles into it immediately, both hands gripping your waist as you melt against him. when you finally pull back, he's still looking at you with that same expression.

"what am i gonna do with you, huh?" he murmurs.

you pull back and look out at the water. the last of the sunlight is turning everything gold. the wind picks up, and you shiver slightly. your bare feet are cold against the sand.

rafe doesn't say anything. he just pulls off his zip up and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. it's warm from his body, and it swallows you—the sleeves falling past your wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh. you wrap it around yourself and breathe in. 

"alright," he says, taking your hand. "let's go back in before you freeze."

you follow him back up the beach, your fingers laced with his. when you reach the deck you notice your shoes still sitting there by the door. right next to his, like they belong there.

the warmth of the house wraps around you when you step back inside. the dishes are still on the counter. he's already moving past that, gesturing toward the couch. "c'mere, baby."

he picks up the remote and scrolls through something on the tv. a movie flickers to life on the screen, but you're not really watching. you're watching him. the way he moves. the way he tosses the remote onto the coffee table like he's done it a thousand times. he settles beside you on the couch, and you don't hesitate. you shift closer immediately, tucking yourself against his side. his arm comes around you properly, his hand settling at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your ribs. the cotton of his shirt is soft beneath your palm. you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. it's faster than you expect.

"better?" he asks.

"much," you say.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. you turn slightly and catch his lips properly, and he makes a soft sound before pulling back. his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there, and he's kissing you again before you can take a full breath.

this kiss is different. slower. he takes his time, pressing his lips to yours once, twice, then deeper—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him. when he licks into your mouth, your stomach clenches and heat pools low between your thighs. you make a small sound against his mouth and he groans, pulling you closer.

his hand tightens on your neck—not rough, but firm. his other hand finds your waist and he's pulling you toward him, and you're moving without thinking, your knee sliding up onto the couch cushion.

suddenly you're half in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls you the rest of the way, adjusting you so you're straddling him properly. the kiss turns messy. his tongue slides against yours and he tastes like the wine from dinner, like salt air, like want. you press yourself against him and feel the hard line of his cock between your thighs where you need him most

his hands grip your hips and he pulls you tighter against him, harder. his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and you whimper into his mouth, clenching around absolutely nothing.

"yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough. "you like that?"

you nod, but it's not enough. you pull back just slightly, still straddling him, still breathing hard. your eyes meet his and for a second neither of you moves. you can feel the slight dampness between your legs, the way your panties are starting clinging to you. god, you're already wet for him and he hasn't even hardly touched you.

"please," you whisper, and your voice comes out small and broken and completely helpless. "i need you."

he watches you for a moment, and you can see him fighting it. fighting himself. and you're trembling slightly, still twitching against him, your hips moving in these tiny involuntary circles because you can't help it. you need friction. you need him.

"fuck, baby—" he pulls you back down, kissing you harder now, messier. like he's trying to devour you.

"need more," you whine against his mouth, the words coming out breathless and desperate. he groans into your neck, kissing along the line of your throat, his hands shaking slightly.

his free hand slides down your back, past your waist, and grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. you can feel exactly how much he wants you. the strain of his jeans, the hard heat of him pressing right where you need it most.

"please—" you say it against his mouth, just that one word, and he groans like you've actually hurt him.

for a moment it feels like it could go either way. like he could just keep going, like he could bend you over the back of this couch and—

but then he stops.

it's sudden enough that it takes your breath away. his hands still. his kiss gentles, though he keeps his mouth on yours for just a second longer. then he pulls back, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing is ragged.

"hey—" he says quietly. "look at me."

you're already looking at him, but he reaches up anyway and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs settling on your cheeks. he tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. up close like this, you can see exactly how much restraint this is costing him. his pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, a flush creeping up his neck.

"gotta be good for me, alright?" he says, and his voice is rough. rough in a way that makes your stomach clench. "can you do that? be patient for me?"

be patient? wait? you're not sure you can sit here and not combust. you nod, but your eyes are already tracking down to his mouth. to the way his lips are swollen from kissing you, the slight shine on his mouth. you want to lean in and taste him again so badly your whole body aches with it. your hips shift slightly, just an inch, testing—

"look at me," he repeats, not unkindly, and you snap your gaze back to his immediately, but it takes actual effort. like your body doesn't want to listen to anything but the pull toward him.

"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise hits you somewhere deep. his thumbs trace your cheekbones, gentle now, tender. "we're gonna do this right. but not tonight, yeah? tonight you're just gonna sit with me."

you nod again because you can't speak. because you're trembling slightly, something hot buzzing just beneath your skin. and he's holding your face like you're something precious and the contradiction of it—the softness and the absolute control—is making you dizzy. some part of you is thinking how long you can actually wait before you lose your mind.

he kisses your forehead, then releases your face. his hand finds your waist instead and settle there.

"c'mon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. his breathing is still heavy. "sit with me."

but when you shift to move beside him on the couch, he pulls you back into his lap instead. his arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you against his chest. you can feel him beneath you, still hard, but he's resting his chin on your shoulder like this is enough. like just holding you like this is enough for right now.

the movie plays on. you're not watching it. you're not even pretending to watch it. you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his hands occasionally drifting lower before he catches himself. his breathing is steady now, but you can feel his heartbeat. fast, still affected by what just happened between you.

after a while, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "you okay?" he murmurs.

"yeah,"

"good." another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you feel it shoot straight down your spine. his hand tightens on your waist. he doesn’t make it easy.

you sit like that for a while, existing in this space between wanting and waiting. his breathing eventually steadies, but his hands don't stop moving, tracing patterns on your ribs, your waist, your back.

eventually, you shift position slightly, turning so you can rest your head in his lap. his hand immediately finds your hair, fingers threading through it gently, stroking from your crown down to the ends. you have no idea what's happening on screen anymore.

"mm, you're gettin' sleepy," he says after a while, his fingers still moving through your hair.

"'m not," you murmur, but your eyes are already closing.

"no? cuz it looks like it."

"but i'm awake," you protest, but your words are soft, slurring slightly.

his fingers keep moving through your hair, up and down, up and down, a small, knowing smiling playing on his lips.

"c'mon, baby," he says softly. "let's get you to bed."

you want to argue, but you're too tired. so you just nod, and he helps you sit up, his hand steadying you. your legs are a little unsteady. the darkness wraps around you. your bare feet are cold against the hardwood floor. but his hand is warm against the small of your back.

the bedroom is at the end of the hall. when he pushes the door open, you stop in the doorway for a second. clean lines, dark wood furniture, a massive bed with crisp white sheets. there's a watch box on the dresser, a book on the nightstand, a pair of his shoes by the closet door. it smells like him.

"bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the far wall. his hand is still on your back.

you nod and cross the room. the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, the light flickers on automatically. it's beautiful. all white marble and clean glass. you step inside, your bare feet cold against the tile, and that's when you see it.

a toothbrush. sitting on the counter beside the sink. in your favorite color.

you freeze. your hand hovers over the counter. it's just a toothbrush. just plastic. but he bought this. he put it here. your eyes move to the folded fabric beside it. silk pajamas, soft and expensive. your size. you reach out and touch them, the material slipping through your fingers like water.

there are bottles lined up near the shower. you pick one up, turning it over in your hands. light and floral. the scent hits you immediately—something that reminds you of the perfume you wear on special occasions.

your hands are shaking slightly when you set it back down.

you hear him before you see him. his presence fills the doorway. when you turn, he's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.

your throat tightens.

he pushes off the doorframe and crosses to you slowly. his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. you can feel the warmth of him. his chin rests on the top of your head.

"the toothbrush," you say. your voice sounds small. "the pajamas. the shampoo."

"yeah," he says simply.

"how long ago did you buy those?"

he's quiet for a second. "while," he says finally. "been thinkin' about you stayin' over for a bit."

you turn around in his arms to face him. his eyes are soft, patient.

"so you've been planning this," you say.

"yeah." he doesn't sound apologetic.

you've never had anyone be this thoughtful. this intentional. your ex-boyfriends never remembered how you took your coffee. never planned for you. never looked at you like you were something precious. something they wanted to keep.

"you okay with that?"

"yeah," you whisper. "yeah, i'm okay with that."

he kisses your hair once, soft and tender before letting you go. "go get ready," he murmurs. "i'll be in bed."

you nod and he leaves, and you're alone again with the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shampoo that smells like you.

you change into the silk pajamas (they fit perfectly, of course they do), and brush your teeth with the toothbrush he bought. when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright.

when you step back into the bedroom, he's already under the covers, propped up on one elbow. the lamp on his nightstand casts everything in warm gold. he's shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. for a second you just stand there.

his eyes follow you as you cross the room like he's taking his time appreciating the sight of you in pajamas he bought for you. in his room. in his house

"c'mere," he says, and you slip under the sheets beside him.

for a moment, you're not sure where to put yourself. your hands hover awkwardly.

then he huffs out a quiet laugh and his arm reaches across the space between you. he pulls you against his chest without hesitation, his hand splaying wide across your back. your bare skin meets his warmth, and you suck in a breath.

"there," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you—soft and slow and deep. once, twice. his hand slides up into your hair, tilting your face toward his. you make a small sound against his mouth, and he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours. deeper. like he's trying to commit the feeling of you to memory.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he's breathing harder. 

"goodnight, sweetheart." he whispers, and his voice is rough.

"goodnight, rafe." you murmur back, settling against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. your bare hand rests over his heart. you can feel it racing. his arm wraps around you properly now. you can feel his chin rest against the top of your head. his hand moves slowly up and down your back. he's still awake. still aware.

you're hyperaware of how little you're wearing. how close you are.

eventually, your breathing evens out, and you drift off like that—wrapped around him, his hand on your back, the sound of the ocean through the window.

you wake up slowly and for a second, you forget where you are. the ceiling isn’t quite right. the angle of the sun is wrong. then you remember. you're in his bed.

you turn your head, and he's right there. still asleep. his face is turned toward you on the pillow, one arm stretched out between you. his breathing is slow and even. his mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. his hair is messy, falling across his forehead. without his usual intensity, he looks younger. softer.

you've never seen him like this. the morning light catches on the stubble along his jaw, which is thicker this morning than it was last night. you want to reach out and touch him, but you're afraid to wake him.

slowly, carefully, you reach out anyway.

your fingers hover over his face for a second before you let them settle against his jaw. the stubble is rough under your fingertips, coarser than you expected. you trace the line of it, feather-light. his skin is warm. you move higher, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

your fingers move to his temple, then his hairline, smoothing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead. you let your hand rest there for a moment, your palm against the side of his face.

and then it hits you all at once.

you're in love with him.

your heart kicks into overdrive, your hand still on his face, and you can't breathe. you're completely, irrevocably in love with him. this man who bought you a toothbrush and silk pajamas weeks ago. who remembered how you take your coffee. who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. who's been planning to have you here all along.

he stirs.

it's small at first—just a shift in his breathing. then his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he's looking right at you.

his mouth curves immediately.

"caught you," he says, his arm sliding around your waist. he pulls you closer.

heat floods your face. "no," you say anyway, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"no?" he repeats, his eyes sharper now. then he leans down and kisses you before you can deny it again. 

"mornin'," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.

"good morning," you say back.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand still on your back, his eyes dark. "what's goin' on in that head of yours?"

you shake your head. "nothing."

his eyes narrow slightly. his thumb traces slow circles on your skin—bare skin. 

"mm."

he studies you for another moment, then leans down and kisses you again—deeper this time. slower. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. you kiss him back, your fingers curling into his shoulder, and he makes a low sound. when you look at him, there's that slight curve to his mouth. but his eyes are darker than before.

"c'mere," he murmurs, and he's pulling you up to straddle his lap without breaking eye contact. his hands steady you at the hips, and then they move—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the thin silk. his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts and you suck in a breath.

"you're okay?" he asks.

"more than okay,".

he kisses you again, and you let yourself sink into it. your hands find his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath your palms. you can feel his heartbeat racing. his hand slides up your back, and suddenly the only thing between you is silk and the awareness of what's happening. the way your body fits against his. the way his hands know exactly where to touch you.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. "i want—" you start, and then you're not sure how to finish that sentence.

"i know," he says quietly. "but not yet. wanna do it right with you." you reply with a nod, even though what you want right now has nothing to do with right.

he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "c'mon," he murmurs. "let me take care of you. coffee?"

“yes please.”

he moves to get out of bed, and you follow the shift, adjusting slightly as he sits up, your legs still tangled with his. he disappears for a moment, and then you hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood.

when he appears in the doorway again, he's holding a mug in one hand—the same blue one from yesterday—and a small plate balanced in the other. still shirtless. still rumpled. his hair still falling across his forehead.

he sets the mug carefully on the nightstand. the plate follows, and then he just stands there for a second, looking at you. his gaze feels intimate, like he's looking at something that belongs to him.

"you look good in my bed,"

your face heats, and you're smiling sheepishly. "rafe—"

he sits on the edge of the mattress, and you shift closer without thinking. his hand finds your hair automatically, smoothing it back from your face. he stops, his hand stilling in your hair. his eyes move over your face.

you glance over and watch as steam curls lazily from the rim of the mug. you can smell it from here—rich and warm and sweet, exactly how you like it.

"still can’t believe you remembered the creamer," you murmur.

"’course i did." it's not a question. his hand slides down to cup your jaw. "c'mon. sit up."

you push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, and reach for the mug. it's warm in your hands. you take a sip, and it's perfect.

he doesn't ask if it's okay. he just watches you, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets, his thumb moving in that slow rhythm. but his eyes don't leave your face.

you take another sip, and his mouth curves slightly.

"what?" you ask.

"nothin'." but he's still watching you.

you set the mug back on the nightstand and reach for the toast, breaking off a corner. you take a bite, and you wrinkle your nose slightly.

"oh, so that's how we're doing this," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you're gonna judge my old man breakfast?"

"i'm not judging," you say, but you're grinning. "i'm just observing. burnt toast and coffee. very... vintage of you."

he leans back slightly, his hand still on your thigh, and gives you a mock offended look. "vintage?"

"sorry, i meant to say geriatric."

"geriatric," he repeats, shaking his head. "you're callin' me geriatric while you're sitting in my bed eating the breakfast i made you?"

you bite your lip, trying not to smile. "when you put it like that—"

"so what does that make you?" he asks, leaning closer. his hand drifts higher on your thigh. "you're the one who likes old men, so what's that say about your taste?"

heat floods your cheeks. "my taste is clearly terrible."

"terrible, huh?" he's grinning now, that cocky smirk on his face. "you seemed to think my taste was pretty good last night on the couch."

"rafe—"

"what?" he says innocently. "i'm just sayin'."

you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it easily, laughing. but then he tosses it aside and leans over, kissing you softly. when he pulls back, he's still smiling.

"finish your breakfast, baby. before it gets cold," he says, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before he stands up and heads to the bathroom.

you watch him go, your heart still racing, and take another bite of the burnt toast.

he comes back a little while later, showered and almost dressed, and the morning light catches on the water droplets still clinging to his hair. you're still in bed, cradling the empty coffee mug, watching him move around the room.

"you alright?" he asks, pulling on a black tshirt.

"yeah," you say, and you mean it.

he bends down and kisses the top of your head, his hand lingering on your hair for a moment. "you have to be back soon?"

“i told my mom this afternoon.” the reminder of reality crashes down like cold water. you don't want to leave.

"mmm.” he says quietly, like he can read your mind, "you could text her. tell her you're stayin' another night."

your heart jumps for a moment, then another wave of reality hits you. "not sure that i’d be so lucky."

"worth a shot, yeah?" he sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "i want you here."

your throat tightens.

"i know," you whisper.

for a second, you let yourself imagine it. another morning. another cup of coffee. another night falling asleep with the windows open and the ocean just outside. he studies your face for a second before leaning in to kiss you again, slow this time. his thumb brushes your cheek when he pulls away.

"alright," he murmurs. "we'll worry about that later."

you nod. later can wait a little longer.

𝑎/𝑛: EEEEKKKKKK i love them so fucking much i can’t. i love love. i want to be love.

i’m willing to bet at least a few of you were wondering where a lil special something was… and trust me, i get it LOL. but i really wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of their relationship and make sure their weekend together paid off emotionally, rather than risk having that swallowed up by smut. before i even started writing, i knew i wanted the heart of this chapter to be reader realizing she’s completely in love with him.

that being said… i am planning to write a yummy smutty bonus that’s basically an alternate ending to stay a while. 🤭 so stay tuned!!!

please let me know what you guys think via comments and reblogs! pls pls pls feel free to send asks and requests as well! i promise i don’t bite ♡

your phone buzzes on your desk at 4:56 PM.

you're halfway through folding laundry when the vibration makes you freeze, a t-shirt dangling from your hands. you pick it up expecting a text from a friend, but your stomach drops the second you see rafe's name.

Pack a bag.

you stare at it. read it twice. three times. your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don't ask what for. you don't ask where or why or how long. you just know.

are you serious

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

Very.

oh god. your heart is actually racing now.

you press your phone to your chest and let out a breathless laugh that's half excitement, half panic. you want this so badly your hands are shaking. but the thought of lying to your parents makes something twist in your stomach. you glance at the time. 4:59 PM. if you're going to do this, you have got to move fast. there's a really big chance that you can't pull this off. an even bigger chance that your mom shuts it down. but you're willing to try.

it takes you twenty minutes to come up with something believable. a trip to the mainland last minute with stella from your old sociology class. her friend bailed. you'd be back tomorrow evening. that's believable, right? you practice it four times in the mirror, watching your own face for tells. you look nervous and giddy. way too fucking giddy. you try again, aiming for casual, but casual isn't happening.

you pull your duffel bag out from under your bed and start packing, grabbing a change of clothes and the cute pajamas, the ones that don't look like you're trying too hard, your toothbrush and deodorant and phone charger. your hands hesitate over your underwear drawer, but you grab a matching set, just in case, and shove it to the bottom of the bag where your mom wouldn't see it if she happened to glance inside. god, that would be embarrassing.

downstairs, you can hear the tv on in the living room, your dad's low voice asking your mom something about dinner. you zip the bag shut and stand there for a second, staring at it. this is actually happening.

your mom is easier to convince than you expected. she's loading the dishwasher when you come downstairs, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. "hey, so stella from one of my old classes just texted. her friend bailed on this trip to the mainland and she asked if i wanted to go. i know it's last minute, but—"

your mom glances up, wiping her hands on a towel. "tonight?"

"yeah. she could come pick me up now. i'd be back tomorrow afternoon or so..."

she looks at you for a long moment, and your heart hammers against your ribs. please don't ask more questions. please don't look closer.

"stella... from college?"

"yeah."

"and you'll text me when you get there?"

"of course." immediately.

she smiles. "okay... have fun, sweetie. be safe. and text me when you get there, okay?"

the ease of it almost makes you feel worse. "i will. thanks, mom." you kiss her cheek and head for the door before she can ask any more questions, before the lie can show on your face and ruin everything.

by 5:30 PM, you're standing on the corner a block away from your house, duffel bag at your feet, phone clutched in your hand. the sun is starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. the neighborhood is quiet. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. you shift your weight from foot to foot, your leg bouncing slightly. you check your phone. 5:31. then 5:32. what if he doesn't show up? or what if he changed his mind? what if—

then you see it—his black truck, pulling up beneath the shade of the oaks, windows tinted dark. relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. you'd recognize it anywhere. you grab your bag and hurry down the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder once, twice, before yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.

the cool air hits you immediately. the ac is cranked high, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his black ice scented car freshener. the leather seat is cool beneath your thighs. the door closes with a solid thunk.

rafe is leaning back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. he's wearing a linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. he looks casual. so unfairly casual.

he doesn't pull away from the curb yet. instead he just looks at you. his eyes move down your face to your hands gripping the bag, then back up. his mouth curves into a smirk.

"look at you," he murmurs, his voice low. "sneakin' away like a little criminal."

heat floods your cheeks instantly. you drop your bag to the floorboards and fumble with your seatbelt, trying not to meet his eyes. your fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated. he's watching you. "i'm not—"

"no?"

you freeze. he's still watching you, that smirk fully formed now.

"checkin' over your shoulder like that?" he says, tilting his head slightly. his eyes drop to your hands where they're fumbling with the seatbelt, then back to your face. "trembling."

"i am not trembling."

"yeah, you are."

you bite your lip, fighting a smile. he's impossible. "c'mere," he says, and his voice drops, and you don't hesitate. you lean across the console and kiss him, hard and desperate. the leather of the seat creaks slightly beneath you. you can taste the faint hint of coffee on his mouth. your fingers find his shoulders and for a second you forget why you were even nervous.

you lean in again, throwing your arms around his neck, peppering soft, quick kisses along his jaw. he smiles against your skin. you kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips, and he's making a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to cup your face.

"hi," he says against your mouth, teasing.

you pull back just far enough to look at him, your face flushed. "hi yourself," you murmur, and he grins before kissing you properly again, deeper this time.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. his hand smooths down your back, his thumb tracing small circles against your spine.

"been waitin' all day for that," he murmurs against your lips.

you pull back just enough to look at him, your face flushed. "yeah?"

"yeah." his eyes are dark. "you?"

"maybe," you say, trying to play it cool, but he sees right through you. he always does.

he starts to protest, but then his eyes are catching on your hair falling across your shoulder and his hand moves, tucking it back behind your ear. his fingers linger there for a second, warm against your skin.

"what?" you ask, breathless.

"mm, nothin'." he's still looking at you like he lost his train of thought, but then he blinks. "you smell good."

"rafe—"

"you do." he's laughing now—quiet, rough. 

you bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he wraps his arms around you properly, his hand smoothing up your back. you feel him smile against your hair.

"alright," he says after a moment, and his hand slides down to your waist, squeezes once. "sit back before your neighbors see something they shouldn't."

you obey reluctantly, buckling yourself in, and he's still watching you with that amused expression. he shifts the car into drive, one hand returning to the wheel while the other finds your thigh, his palm warm against your skin.

the neighborhood disappears behind you, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

the drive starts familiar, your neighborhood with its modest coastal cottages and beach box houses. rafe's hand stays on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns. god, his hands are huge. after a few minutes, he glances over at you.

"you're quiet," he says.

you bite your lip, staying silent for a moment. "i lied to my mom."

"figured. what'd you tell her?"

"just... a really elaborate lie. about going to the mainland with stella. she believed me immediately and i guess now i feel—" you exhale shakily. "kinda guilty?"

his hand squeezes your thigh gently. "want me to turn around?"

"no," you say quickly, maybe too quickly. the thought of turning around makes your chest clench. and he smiles, like he already knew that would be your answer.

"then stop worryin' about it."

"easy for you to say."

"sweetheart." his voice is patient. "you're twenty-three."

"yeah," you mutter. "but you're thirty nine."

he doesn't argue with that. he just keeps driving, his hand warm on your leg. you watch the scenery change outside the window, the neighborhoods becoming progressively nicer. after a moment you reach down and lace your fingers through his. he glances at you again, something soft crossing his face, and brings your joined hands up to brush a kiss against your knuckles.

"you nervous?"

"a little," you admit. your stomach's been in knots since you got in the truck.

"yeah?" he says, his mouth curving slightly. "good. means you're gonna hold onto me the whole drive."

you roll your eyes but you're smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. you look out the window and watch as the landscape begins to shift. the houses get bigger, set farther back from the street. gated communities with brick columns and wrought iron. the kind of places where you definitely don't belong.

"wait," you say, sitting up straighter. "this is where you live? like, this area?"

"further north," he says.

"of course you do," you murmur, and he laughs—low and genuine. that's where almost all of the wealthy people live. the absolute northernmost area of the island.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothing. just..." you gesture vaguely at the massive houses passing by. "very you. very well off person who has everything figured out."

"very me," he repeats, smirking. "that an insult?"

"no. i just mean—" you're fumbling now. heat is creeping up your neck. "you probably have like a… a fountain, or something don't you?"

he doesn't answer, which is answer enough. you groan and cover your face with your free hand.

"oh my god. you do."

"came with the house," he says, and there's that edge again, like he was waiting for you to notice.

"rafe. nobody's house just comes with a fountain."

"mine did."

you're laughing now, and his hand tightens on yours. the streetlights get fewer and farther between. the trees grow taller, older, spanish moss dripping from the branches. you watch it all pass through the tinted window, hyperaware of the way his thumb is tracing circles against your palm.

"how much further?" you ask after a while.

"ten minutes."

your stomach flips. ten minutes until you're actually at his house. ten minutes until this stops being theoretical. you nod and look back out the window, biting the inside of your cheek. the road narrows. suddenly there are no more houses at all—just dense forest on either side.

"rafe?"

"yeah?"

"is it... big? your house?"

he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. "figured you'd see for yourself."

"that's not an answer."

"you'll see in a minute."

"that's not reassuring," you mutter, and he laughs again, his hand leaving yours only to slide higher up your thigh. your breath catches slightly.

"you think too much," he says.

"no i don't."

"yeah, you do." he glances at you. "can hear it from here."

you huff, but you're smiling. "well, excuse me for being a little nervous about seeing where you live for the first time. seems like it deserves a reasonable amount of overthinking."

"why?"

"because—" you falter, searching for the words. your heart is actually pounding now. "because i've never been to your house before. because i don't know what to expect. because—"

"hey." his voice is lower now, and his hand squeezes your thigh. "s'just a house."

"yeah... with a fountain."

"i told you, it came with—"

"i know what you said," you interrupt, grinning despite yourself. "i'm just saying... it doesn't sound like just a house. it sounds like a place where people like me don't really... fit."

he's quiet for a moment. then the trees break, and you see it: the ocean, dark and endless, the last of the sunset turning the water to gold.

"oh," you breathe.

rafe's hand tightens on your thigh. "almost there."

you can't look away from the water. you've always known he had money. you'd have to be blind not to notice the car, the watch, the way he never looks at a price tag. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

he turns onto a private drive, oyster shells crunching under the tires. the forest opens up into something softer. sea grass and palmetto palms and flowering bushes you don't know the names of. it feels impossible to believe that there's a spot in a place like this for a girl like you.

"you alright over there?" he asks quietly, his eyes still on the road but his hand finding your thigh again.

you nod, not trusting your voice. your throat feels tight.

and then you see it. his house rising up ahead, low and modern with clean lines and huge windows that catch the last of the light. white siding, dark wood, a wraparound porch. there's a fountain in the circular drive.

you sit there, staring. this is his house. he actually lives here.

"told you," he says. "came with the house."

you let out a breathless laugh, but you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, already climbing out. the air smells like salt and jasmine and moss. the ocean is louder here.

rafe's already beside you, taking your duffel bag from your hand. "c'mon, baby."

he unlocks the front door and you follow him inside, and your breath catches. the space opens up in front of you: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that looks expensive but lived-in. warm wood floors beneath your feet. the kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, and the entire back wall is glass.

but that's not what makes you stop in your tracks.

it's the sneakers by the door. one tipped over on its side. the heel scuffed. the coffee mug on the side table—there's still liquid inside it. cold by now, probably. the book left open on the arm of the couch, pages down. the spine is creased, well-loved. a hoodie draped over the back of a kitchen chair, slate grey. mail stacked on the console table. a ceramic bowl filled with keys. coins scattered among them. a receipt folded in half.

"oh wow," you whisper.

rafe's leaning against the doorframe, watching you. "what?"

"i don't know... you actually live here."

"well, yeah."

"no, i mean—" you gesture at the mug, the book, the shoes. "like you woke up here this morning. you drank coffee. you left a book on the couch. you're just... you exist here."

"yeah, baby." he's grinning now. "i live here."

you turn in a slow circle, taking it in. the throw blanket on the couch, worn smooth in places. the record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you can see the edges of the album covers, the colors faded from sunlight. the way the light hits the kitchen island. there's a pen on the counter, uncapped. a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. the handwriting is unmistakably his—sharp, efficient, organized. there's a small framed photo on the mantle.

it's a much younger him and an older woman. she has his eyes.

"your mom?" you ask, not turning around.

"yeah," he says from behind you. "that's her."

you nod. you're standing in a photo of his life, looking at a photo of his mother, and something about it makes your chest feel tight. you don't know why exactly.

you wander into the kitchen, running your fingers along the cool granite. you open a cabinet without thinking and find glasses that are neatly stacked. you close it quickly, then you open another one. plates. another. bowls. you find a drawer filled with what looks like chaos: takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries, a phone charger with a frayed cord, business cards held together with a rubber band.

"this is a disaster," you say, gesturing at the chaos.

"yeah, well." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "that's where the random shit lives."

he has a junk drawer. like a normal person. and somehow that makes him feel more real.

you keep exploring, walking over to the refrigerator. there are photos held up with magnets. you pull open the fridge. it's surprisingly well-stocked. fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, a few bottles of expensive wine. there's a bottle of your favorite creamer on the second shelf.

"...is this mine?" you ask quietly, reaching for it.

he glances over from where he's started pulling things from the pantry. "hm?"

"the creamer."

"yeah."

your hand goes still. he bought this. he went to the store and bought the specific creamer you like and put it in his fridge knowing—knowing—that you'd eventually open this door and see it.

you don't say anything else. just put it back and close the fridge. your hands feel a little shaky. he just keeps moving, setting things on the counter. olive oil. garlic. a package of fresh pasta. basil in a small pot on the windowsill. he planned this. he really planned this.

"you're gonna cook?" you ask, wandering back over to the island, trying to sound casual.

"thought i'd make dinner." he's already pulling out a cutting board. "that alright with you?"

"yeah, i just—" you climb onto one of the barstools. "i didn't know you cooked."

"i don't really," he says, starting to chop garlic. "at least not all the time."

"so what, do you doordash?" you ask.

he stops chopping and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. "doordash?"

"i don't know." you shrug, smiling sheepishly. "i just thought you maybe had people bring you food or something."

"what am i, ninety?" he says flatly, going back to the garlic.

"you're almost forty."

he stops. looks at you again, his expression something between offended and amused. "that's rude."

you smile, and can't help but giggle. "i've been waiting to use that."

he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, but there's a small smile on his face. "old man," you mutter, and he flicks a piece of garlic at you without even looking.

you laugh again, ducking, and he pours you a glass of wine without asking. he slides it across the counter and you take a sip. it's cold and crisp. you watch him work, the knife against the board, the way he moves through the space like he's done this a thousand times. his forearms tanned and flexing. you take another sip of wine. stop staring.

the smell of garlic hits you suddenly, sharp and pungent, and your mouth waters. he's stirring something, and the pan hisses when he adds more ingredients. the smell becoming richer.

"so you cook couple times a week then?" you ask, genuinely curious now.

"yeah," he says, not looking up from what he's doing. "relaxes me."

you put that away for later. you take another sip of wine and notice him glance at you, then back at the stove.

"how long have you lived here?" you ask.

"couple years."

"do you like it?"

"yeah." he doesn't elaborate.

you wander away from the counter, drawn to the bookshelf in the living room. you run your fingers along the spines. cookbooks, mostly, but also novels you recognize, a few nonfiction titles about business, some memoirs. there's a small ceramic bowl on the shelf, filled with shells and smooth stones. you pick up one of the shells, turning it over in your hands. it's worn soft at the edges. 

"you collect shells?" you call out.

"hm?" he appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "nah. just stuff i find."

you put it back and keep browsing. you find a photo album wedged between two books and pull it out, but you don't open it because that feels too invasive. there's a record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you read the titles, trying to piece together who he is. old soul records sitting next to indie rock sitting next to classical. it doesn't match what you expected.

"you comin' back over here or you gonna take inventory of my whole house?" he calls out.

"just getting to know the place," you call back. you head back to the kitchen anyway, perching on the barstool again.

he's stirred the sauce, added something else. the kitchen smells incredible. your stomach rumbles, and he glances at you, his mouth curving slightly.

"almost ready," he says. "grab some plates from that cabinet." he nods toward one on the far side of the kitchen.

you hop down and pull out two plates, setting them on the counter beside him. he plates the pasta with ease, and without thinking, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "thank you, rafe." you murmur.

he looks momentarily stunned, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he catches your chin with his free hand and tilts your face toward his. he kisses you properly, soft and warm before handing over the plate.

steam rises from it. you take a bite before you even sit back down, and make a small sound of approval without meaning to.

"not bad for a guy who survives on doordash, huh." he says, settling onto the stool next to you.

you laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "i didn't say you survive on doordash. i just—"

"you absolutely implied it."

"okay, fine. i thought you did. clearly i was wrong." you take another bite. "this is actually really good."

he takes a bite of his pasta, watching you. "you taste wine with this?" he asks, nodding at your glass.

"not yet," you take another sip of the wine. the flavors pair perfectly. "oh. wow."

"hm," he says, like that was the obvious choice all along, and goes back to eating.

you eat in comfortable silence for a while. it's easy, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his space, your knee brushing his under the counter. he doesn't move away. if anything, he shifts closer. his hand finds your lower back at one point, stays there for a moment while he reaches for his wine glass with the other, then moves away. he feeds you a bite of his pasta with his fork, watching you carefully as you taste it. your face flushes.

"this is really good," you say after a few minutes, your voice slightly smaller than before.

"you already said that."

"i know. but it is. like, genuinely."

he glances at you, then back at his plate. you watch him for a second, then go back to your own food. there's something intimate about eating together like this, sitting close in his kitchen, the ocean visible through the massive windows behind you.

when you're finished eating, you start to stand, reaching for his plate, but he catches your wrist gently.

"leave it," he says.

"rafe, i can—"

"sweetheart, just leave it."

you hesitate, then sit back down. he stands, rounding the island to rinse his hands in the sink. he leaves the plates where they are, just washes his hands and turns back to you.

"you wanna go for a walk?" he asks.

you look surprised. "now?"

"why not?"

you glance at the plates, then back at him. "the sun's almost gone."

"i know." he's already moving toward the glass doors that lead to the deck. "come on."

you follow him, and he doesn't wait for you to grab shoes. you slip off the barstool and just follow him outside. the air hits you immediately, cooler than this afternoon. salt-laced and clean. the sky is still holding onto the last traces of daylight, deep blue fading to violet at the horizon. the ocean sounds different. louder.

"oh my god," you breathe, stopping to look around. "this is—rafe, this is insane."

"you think so?" he says, and there's that slight curve to his mouth. he's watching you, not the view.

"you just— walk out here whenever you want?"

"pretty much."

you shake your head, laughing. the privilege of it is almost absurd. "you're so lucky. the beach back home is always packed with tourists."

"you can come here whenever you want," he says, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you like he's imagining you here, coming back, making this a habit. "you know that, right?"

"really?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"yeah, baby. any time."

you walk a little further, the water getting closer. the sand is soft and still warm from the day, giving slightly under your weight. it's quiet out here. just you and him and the sound of the ocean.

"wait," you say suddenly, stopping. "do you swim out here?"

he huffs a laugh. "mm, sometimes."

"at night?"

"yeah."

"that's terrifying."

"nah." he tugs you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "it's peaceful. we should sometime."

"it's dark," you counter, but you're grinning now, leaning into him. "what if there's like a shark or something?"

"wouldn't stand a chance against me."

you burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. "you're ridiculous."

"i'm serious." he's grinning too now, catching your hand before you can pull away completely. "what— you think i'm lettin' a shark get you?"

"oh my god, stop—"

but he's already pulling you in, kissing you mid-laugh. his hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt into it immediately. his other hand finds the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. he tastes like salt and wine. when he pulls back you're both smiling, both a little breathless.

he kisses you again, softer this time. "hi," he murmurs, teasing.

you pull back just enough to look at him, feeling heat creep up your neck. "hi," you say sheepishly, and he grins before leaning in to kiss you again—quick pecks along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

you're still catching your breath when he pulls back to look at you. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, slow enough to make your stomach flip.

"jesus..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "look at you." the way he says it makes your cheeks heat up.

"c'mere."

"i'm already here."

"not close enough."

heat floods your face and you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? he smiles into it immediately, both hands gripping your waist as you melt against him. when you finally pull back, he's still looking at you with that same expression.

"what am i gonna do with you, huh?" he murmurs.

you pull back and look out at the water. the last of the sunlight is turning everything gold. the wind picks up, and you shiver slightly. your bare feet are cold against the sand.

rafe doesn't say anything. he just pulls off his zip up and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. it's warm from his body, and it swallows you—the sleeves falling past your wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh. you wrap it around yourself and breathe in. 

"alright," he says, taking your hand. "let's go back in before you freeze."

you follow him back up the beach, your fingers laced with his. when you reach the deck you notice your shoes still sitting there by the door. right next to his, like they belong there.

the warmth of the house wraps around you when you step back inside. the dishes are still on the counter. he's already moving past that, gesturing toward the couch. "c'mere, baby."

he picks up the remote and scrolls through something on the tv. a movie flickers to life on the screen, but you're not really watching. you're watching him. the way he moves. the way he tosses the remote onto the coffee table like he's done it a thousand times. he settles beside you on the couch, and you don't hesitate. you shift closer immediately, tucking yourself against his side. his arm comes around you properly, his hand settling at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your ribs. the cotton of his shirt is soft beneath your palm. you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. it's faster than you expect.

"better?" he asks.

"much," you say.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. you turn slightly and catch his lips properly, and he makes a soft sound before pulling back. his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there, and he's kissing you again before you can take a full breath.

this kiss is different. slower. he takes his time, pressing his lips to yours once, twice, then deeper—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him. when he licks into your mouth, your stomach clenches and heat pools low between your thighs. you make a small sound against his mouth and he groans, pulling you closer.

his hand tightens on your neck—not rough, but firm. his other hand finds your waist and he's pulling you toward him, and you're moving without thinking, your knee sliding up onto the couch cushion.

suddenly you're half in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls you the rest of the way, adjusting you so you're straddling him properly. the kiss turns messy. his tongue slides against yours and he tastes like the wine from dinner, like salt air, like want. you press yourself against him and feel the hard line of his cock between your thighs where you need him most

his hands grip your hips and he pulls you tighter against him, harder. his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and you whimper into his mouth, clenching around absolutely nothing.

"yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough. "you like that?"

you nod, but it's not enough. you pull back just slightly, still straddling him, still breathing hard. your eyes meet his and for a second neither of you moves. you can feel the slight dampness between your legs, the way your panties are starting clinging to you. god, you're already wet for him and he hasn't even hardly touched you.

"please," you whisper, and your voice comes out small and broken and completely helpless. "i need you."

he watches you for a moment, and you can see him fighting it. fighting himself. and you're trembling slightly, still twitching against him, your hips moving in these tiny involuntary circles because you can't help it. you need friction. you need him.

"fuck, baby—" he pulls you back down, kissing you harder now, messier. like he's trying to devour you.

"need more," you whine against his mouth, the words coming out breathless and desperate. he groans into your neck, kissing along the line of your throat, his hands shaking slightly.

his free hand slides down your back, past your waist, and grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. you can feel exactly how much he wants you. the strain of his jeans, the hard heat of him pressing right where you need it most.

"please—" you say it against his mouth, just that one word, and he groans like you've actually hurt him.

for a moment it feels like it could go either way. like he could just keep going, like he could bend you over the back of this couch and—

but then he stops.

it's sudden enough that it takes your breath away. his hands still. his kiss gentles, though he keeps his mouth on yours for just a second longer. then he pulls back, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing is ragged.

"hey—" he says quietly. "look at me."

you're already looking at him, but he reaches up anyway and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs settling on your cheeks. he tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. up close like this, you can see exactly how much restraint this is costing him. his pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, a flush creeping up his neck.

"gotta be good for me, alright?" he says, and his voice is rough. rough in a way that makes your stomach clench. "can you do that? be patient for me?"

be patient? wait? you're not sure you can sit here and not combust. you nod, but your eyes are already tracking down to his mouth. to the way his lips are swollen from kissing you, the slight shine on his mouth. you want to lean in and taste him again so badly your whole body aches with it. your hips shift slightly, just an inch, testing—

"look at me," he repeats, not unkindly, and you snap your gaze back to his immediately, but it takes actual effort. like your body doesn't want to listen to anything but the pull toward him.

"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise hits you somewhere deep. his thumbs trace your cheekbones, gentle now, tender. "we're gonna do this right. but not tonight, yeah? tonight you're just gonna sit with me."

you nod again because you can't speak. because you're trembling slightly, something hot buzzing just beneath your skin. and he's holding your face like you're something precious and the contradiction of it—the softness and the absolute control—is making you dizzy. some part of you is thinking how long you can actually wait before you lose your mind.

he kisses your forehead, then releases your face. his hand finds your waist instead and settle there.

"c'mon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. his breathing is still heavy. "sit with me."

but when you shift to move beside him on the couch, he pulls you back into his lap instead. his arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you against his chest. you can feel him beneath you, still hard, but he's resting his chin on your shoulder like this is enough. like just holding you like this is enough for right now.

the movie plays on. you're not watching it. you're not even pretending to watch it. you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his hands occasionally drifting lower before he catches himself. his breathing is steady now, but you can feel his heartbeat. fast, still affected by what just happened between you.

after a while, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "you okay?" he murmurs.

"yeah,"

"good." another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you feel it shoot straight down your spine. his hand tightens on your waist. he doesn’t make it easy.

you sit like that for a while, existing in this space between wanting and waiting. his breathing eventually steadies, but his hands don't stop moving, tracing patterns on your ribs, your waist, your back.

eventually, you shift position slightly, turning so you can rest your head in his lap. his hand immediately finds your hair, fingers threading through it gently, stroking from your crown down to the ends. you have no idea what's happening on screen anymore.

"mm, you're gettin' sleepy," he says after a while, his fingers still moving through your hair.

"'m not," you murmur, but your eyes are already closing.

"no? cuz it looks like it."

"but i'm awake," you protest, but your words are soft, slurring slightly.

his fingers keep moving through your hair, up and down, up and down, a small, knowing smiling playing on his lips.

"c'mon, baby," he says softly. "let's get you to bed."

you want to argue, but you're too tired. so you just nod, and he helps you sit up, his hand steadying you. your legs are a little unsteady. the darkness wraps around you. your bare feet are cold against the hardwood floor. but his hand is warm against the small of your back.

the bedroom is at the end of the hall. when he pushes the door open, you stop in the doorway for a second. clean lines, dark wood furniture, a massive bed with crisp white sheets. there's a watch box on the dresser, a book on the nightstand, a pair of his shoes by the closet door. it smells like him.

"bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the far wall. his hand is still on your back.

you nod and cross the room. the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, the light flickers on automatically. it's beautiful. all white marble and clean glass. you step inside, your bare feet cold against the tile, and that's when you see it.

a toothbrush. sitting on the counter beside the sink. in your favorite color.

you freeze. your hand hovers over the counter. it's just a toothbrush. just plastic. but he bought this. he put it here. your eyes move to the folded fabric beside it. silk pajamas, soft and expensive. your size. you reach out and touch them, the material slipping through your fingers like water.

there are bottles lined up near the shower. you pick one up, turning it over in your hands. light and floral. the scent hits you immediately—something that reminds you of the perfume you wear on special occasions.

your hands are shaking slightly when you set it back down.

you hear him before you see him. his presence fills the doorway. when you turn, he's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.

your throat tightens.

he pushes off the doorframe and crosses to you slowly. his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. you can feel the warmth of him. his chin rests on the top of your head.

"the toothbrush," you say. your voice sounds small. "the pajamas. the shampoo."

"yeah," he says simply.

"how long ago did you buy those?"

he's quiet for a second. "while," he says finally. "been thinkin' about you stayin' over for a bit."

you turn around in his arms to face him. his eyes are soft, patient.

"so you've been planning this," you say.

"yeah." he doesn't sound apologetic.

you've never had anyone be this thoughtful. this intentional. your ex-boyfriends never remembered how you took your coffee. never planned for you. never looked at you like you were something precious. something they wanted to keep.

"you okay with that?"

"yeah," you whisper. "yeah, i'm okay with that."

he kisses your hair once, soft and tender before letting you go. "go get ready," he murmurs. "i'll be in bed."

you nod and he leaves, and you're alone again with the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shampoo that smells like you.

you change into the silk pajamas (they fit perfectly, of course they do), and brush your teeth with the toothbrush he bought. when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright.

when you step back into the bedroom, he's already under the covers, propped up on one elbow. the lamp on his nightstand casts everything in warm gold. he's shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. for a second you just stand there.

his eyes follow you as you cross the room like he's taking his time appreciating the sight of you in pajamas he bought for you. in his room. in his house

"c'mere," he says, and you slip under the sheets beside him.

for a moment, you're not sure where to put yourself. your hands hover awkwardly.

then he huffs out a quiet laugh and his arm reaches across the space between you. he pulls you against his chest without hesitation, his hand splaying wide across your back. your bare skin meets his warmth, and you suck in a breath.

"there," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you—soft and slow and deep. once, twice. his hand slides up into your hair, tilting your face toward his. you make a small sound against his mouth, and he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours. deeper. like he's trying to commit the feeling of you to memory.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he's breathing harder. 

"goodnight, sweetheart." he whispers, and his voice is rough.

"goodnight, rafe." you murmur back, settling against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. your bare hand rests over his heart. you can feel it racing. his arm wraps around you properly now. you can feel his chin rest against the top of your head. his hand moves slowly up and down your back. he's still awake. still aware.

you're hyperaware of how little you're wearing. how close you are.

eventually, your breathing evens out, and you drift off like that—wrapped around him, his hand on your back, the sound of the ocean through the window.

you wake up slowly and for a second, you forget where you are. the ceiling isn’t quite right. the angle of the sun is wrong. then you remember. you're in his bed.

you turn your head, and he's right there. still asleep. his face is turned toward you on the pillow, one arm stretched out between you. his breathing is slow and even. his mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. his hair is messy, falling across his forehead. without his usual intensity, he looks younger. softer.

you've never seen him like this. the morning light catches on the stubble along his jaw, which is thicker this morning than it was last night. you want to reach out and touch him, but you're afraid to wake him.

slowly, carefully, you reach out anyway.

your fingers hover over his face for a second before you let them settle against his jaw. the stubble is rough under your fingertips, coarser than you expected. you trace the line of it, feather-light. his skin is warm. you move higher, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

your fingers move to his temple, then his hairline, smoothing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead. you let your hand rest there for a moment, your palm against the side of his face.

and then it hits you all at once.

you're in love with him.

your heart kicks into overdrive, your hand still on his face, and you can't breathe. you're completely, irrevocably in love with him. this man who bought you a toothbrush and silk pajamas weeks ago. who remembered how you take your coffee. who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. who's been planning to have you here all along.

he stirs.

it's small at first—just a shift in his breathing. then his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he's looking right at you.

his mouth curves immediately.

"caught you," he says, his arm sliding around your waist. he pulls you closer.

heat floods your face. "no," you say anyway, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"no?" he repeats, his eyes sharper now. then he leans down and kisses you before you can deny it again. 

"mornin'," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.

"good morning," you say back.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand still on your back, his eyes dark. "what's goin' on in that head of yours?"

you shake your head. "nothing."

his eyes narrow slightly. his thumb traces slow circles on your skin—bare skin. 

"mm."

he studies you for another moment, then leans down and kisses you again—deeper this time. slower. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. you kiss him back, your fingers curling into his shoulder, and he makes a low sound. when you look at him, there's that slight curve to his mouth. but his eyes are darker than before.

"c'mere," he murmurs, and he's pulling you up to straddle his lap without breaking eye contact. his hands steady you at the hips, and then they move—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the thin silk. his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts and you suck in a breath.

"you're okay?" he asks.

"more than okay,".

he kisses you again, and you let yourself sink into it. your hands find his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath your palms. you can feel his heartbeat racing. his hand slides up your back, and suddenly the only thing between you is silk and the awareness of what's happening. the way your body fits against his. the way his hands know exactly where to touch you.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. "i want—" you start, and then you're not sure how to finish that sentence.

"i know," he says quietly. "but not yet. wanna do it right with you." you reply with a nod, even though what you want right now has nothing to do with right.

he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "c'mon," he murmurs. "let me take care of you. coffee?"

“yes please.”

he moves to get out of bed, and you follow the shift, adjusting slightly as he sits up, your legs still tangled with his. he disappears for a moment, and then you hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood.

when he appears in the doorway again, he's holding a mug in one hand—the same blue one from yesterday—and a small plate balanced in the other. still shirtless. still rumpled. his hair still falling across his forehead.

he sets the mug carefully on the nightstand. the plate follows, and then he just stands there for a second, looking at you. his gaze feels intimate, like he's looking at something that belongs to him.

"you look good in my bed,"

your face heats, and you're smiling sheepishly. "rafe—"

he sits on the edge of the mattress, and you shift closer without thinking. his hand finds your hair automatically, smoothing it back from your face. he stops, his hand stilling in your hair. his eyes move over your face.

you glance over and watch as steam curls lazily from the rim of the mug. you can smell it from here—rich and warm and sweet, exactly how you like it.

"still can’t believe you remembered the creamer," you murmur.

"’course i did." it's not a question. his hand slides down to cup your jaw. "c'mon. sit up."

you push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, and reach for the mug. it's warm in your hands. you take a sip, and it's perfect.

he doesn't ask if it's okay. he just watches you, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets, his thumb moving in that slow rhythm. but his eyes don't leave your face.

you take another sip, and his mouth curves slightly.

"what?" you ask.

"nothin'." but he's still watching you.

you set the mug back on the nightstand and reach for the toast, breaking off a corner. you take a bite, and you wrinkle your nose slightly.

"oh, so that's how we're doing this," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you're gonna judge my old man breakfast?"

"i'm not judging," you say, but you're grinning. "i'm just observing. burnt toast and coffee. very... vintage of you."

he leans back slightly, his hand still on your thigh, and gives you a mock offended look. "vintage?"

"sorry, i meant to say geriatric."

"geriatric," he repeats, shaking his head. "you're callin' me geriatric while you're sitting in my bed eating the breakfast i made you?"

you bite your lip, trying not to smile. "when you put it like that—"

"so what does that make you?" he asks, leaning closer. his hand drifts higher on your thigh. "you're the one who likes old men, so what's that say about your taste?"

heat floods your cheeks. "my taste is clearly terrible."

"terrible, huh?" he's grinning now, that cocky smirk on his face. "you seemed to think my taste was pretty good last night on the couch."

"rafe—"

"what?" he says innocently. "i'm just sayin'."

you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it easily, laughing. but then he tosses it aside and leans over, kissing you softly. when he pulls back, he's still smiling.

"finish your breakfast, baby. before it gets cold," he says, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before he stands up and heads to the bathroom.

you watch him go, your heart still racing, and take another bite of the burnt toast.

he comes back a little while later, showered and almost dressed, and the morning light catches on the water droplets still clinging to his hair. you're still in bed, cradling the empty coffee mug, watching him move around the room.

"you alright?" he asks, pulling on a black tshirt.

"yeah," you say, and you mean it.

he bends down and kisses the top of your head, his hand lingering on your hair for a moment. "you have to be back soon?"

“i told my mom this afternoon.” the reminder of reality crashes down like cold water. you don't want to leave.

"mmm.” he says quietly, like he can read your mind, "you could text her. tell her you're stayin' another night."

your heart jumps for a moment, then another wave of reality hits you. "not sure that i’d be so lucky."

"worth a shot, yeah?" he sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "i want you here."

your throat tightens.

"i know," you whisper.

for a second, you let yourself imagine it. another morning. another cup of coffee. another night falling asleep with the windows open and the ocean just outside. he studies your face for a second before leaning in to kiss you again, slow this time. his thumb brushes your cheek when he pulls away.

"alright," he murmurs. "we'll worry about that later."

you nod. later can wait a little longer.

𝑎/𝑛: EEEEKKKKKK i love them so fucking much i can’t. i love love. i want to be love.

i’m willing to bet at least a few of you were wondering where a lil special something was… and trust me, i get it LOL. but i really wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of their relationship and make sure their weekend together paid off emotionally, rather than risk having that swallowed up by smut. before i even started writing, i knew i wanted the heart of this chapter to be reader realizing she’s completely in love with him.

that being said… i am planning to write a yummy smutty bonus that’s basically an alternate ending to stay a while. 🤭 so stay tuned!!!

please let me know what you guys think via comments and reblogs! pls pls pls feel free to send asks and requests as well! i promise i don’t bite ♡