He looks at you like you’re something he’s not supposed to touch, always seconds away from getting walked in, but that's half the fun at this point. He takes his time looking you over, his hand lifting to turn his hat from the front to the back with a lazy flick.

He’s on you in a second, big hands sliding around your hips as you straighten up; his body pressing into yours.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with sleep—the kind that always gives him away when he’s stayed up too late the night before and woken up too damn early. “What are you doin’ down here, huh?”

“I made your coffee,” you murmur and he groans.

“Saw your text,” he hums, grazing his mouth over your cheek. “You’re too good to me.” His chain brushes your collarbone when he leans in, cool against your skin.

Garrett lets you go, reluctantly, and you start to walk toward the counter. His eyes trail up the length of you.

“It’s just coffee and toast, baby,” you smile, tilting your head slightly.

“Considering everything you did for me last night… I should be the one making breakfast—you don't owe me anything.”

Your cheeks burn, suddenly shy under all this attention as he walks closer. His hands rest on the counter on either side of your hips just as you lean over the counter, reaching for the butter, your ass arching back, right onto his lap. On purpose. You don’t even try to pretend it wasn’t.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, his voice low and amused as he plays along with the accidental contact, his bag falling heavy to the floor, looking over his shoulder for his roommates. “Real sorry, baby.”

You let out a bubbly laugh as he grabs your body and turns you toward him, lifting you up to set you down on the cool counter.

“What if the boys see you down here, huh?”

His smile’s smug; the man stepping between your thighs as his hands slide up the back of his jersey. His rough thumbs slip under the band of your panties, gripping your hips in his big hands.

Garrett reaches up a little higher, squeezing your breasts before his thumbs brush softly against you. “And what if they did?”

“See you?” His grin widens. “Coach’s daughter wearin’ forty-four and not much else.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, arching into him a little more.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, looking at you like he’s just remembered he has somewhere to be. “I’d be fucked—I mean, it's pretty risky. I could stop,” he grins against your skin.

“No, you couldn't,” you dismiss it with a teasing laugh.

“No shit. Wearin’ my jersey. No bra… Panties. Textin’ me telling me you made me coffee and breakfast. You honestly think I wasn't gonna thank you a little. Thank you, baby,” he breathes as he leans in, pulling the fabric up, his mouth finding your breast.

He circles it once with his tongue, then again before sucking down, rough enough that your breath hitches and your fingers thread through his dark hair, his curls tangling between your fingers as you hold him there.

“Wish we lived alone,” he grumbles, turning his face further into your chest as his curls tickle your skin.

“Yeah?” You ask breathily as your thighs widen on the counter.

“Whole house to ourselves?” He says, letting the words vibrate against your skin.

He tilts back in, greedy mouth following the curve of your neck as his hands clutch your thighs, holding you open as he leans in close.

“I’d lift up the back—bend you over the counter.” His fingers shift around your body, tracing down your spine, landing on your ass, kneading your flesh.

He smiles against your lips, snapping the waistband of your panties against your skin. “Couldn’t have put on some shorts, or somethin’?”

“More comfortable like this,” you whisper, turning his words back on him when you say, “I mean, it's pretty risky. I could run upstairs and put some on.”

“No, you wouldn't,” he hums. “You did this for me and I fuckin’ love it. Just walkin’ around here like you own the place. What if Tuck and Logan see you, huh? Dean?”

“Oh, Dean?” You ask, because suddenly this conversation makes a lot more sense.

“Don’t start,” he scoffs. “You know he likes you.”

“None of you are subtle,” you answer and he lets out a laugh.

“Yeah, well you got no idea how many conversations I’ve sat through, baby.”

Then his hand slips forward, grazing over the thin material between your legs, pressing soft little circles onto your clit until your hips twitch at his touch.

“They think they know what it’d be like to be with you—they got no fucking clue,” his voice breaks a little when he softens it. “How perfect you are—how much you do for me. To me.”

You hook a hand around the back of his neck, thinking about how easy it would be to have him press himself in and lay you out across the counter, but the both of you would never recover from being caught like that.

You pull him closer and his lips suck down on your neck, rough enough to leave a mark.

“Kept my mouth shut. Haven't said shit. It kills me…” He breathes over your collarbone right where the collar of the jersey meets your skin. “I've been such a good boy for you.”

“So good,” you whisper. “And yet, you stopped telling what we would do if this house was ours,” you breathe, nails tracing over the thick bulge in his shorts.

He laughs, liking the sound of that. “Got you bent over this counter. One hand on your hip, the other gripping this jersey in my fist while you cry out that name on your back.”

His fingers trail even lower, dipping just barely between your folds, right above your entrance, the barrier of fabric only adding to the ache between your thighs. So much for all that teasing he accused you of. He’s worse.

“Too bad you have a workout.” Your fingers card through his dark hair. “We could stay back.”

He grins as he chuckles warmly against the column of your neck, dragging your panties to the side. “Fuck, you wanna get me in trouble, huh? Won’t be able to play tonight if I don’t show—you know that. After the game, though. Boys’ll go to the bar,” he breathes as his fingers mimic the tempo of his words.

His breath catches in his broad chest as your finger slips under the band of his shorts, pulling him closer before you slide your hand inside.

“Christ,” he grits through a smile as your fingers wrap around his cock, finding him hard and heavy. You stroke and he hums deep against your lips about all the things he wants to do to you when you're alone.

“Trying to get me all worked up just to send me off,” he whispers. “That’s fucked, pretty.”

He works you with his long thick fingers, slow enough to tease. “How fast do you think I could get you off, huh?” He chuckles, his laugh buzzing against your lips. “Pretty close right now, huh?”

Garrett breathes those words against your jaw. Your hand slaps over your mouth, muffling the sound of his name.

Your pussy squeezes around his fingers and you lose the rhythm of your strokes, but he doesn't, leaning into the counter a little more. The wet sounds of his hand darting in and out suddenly, too loud but it's replaced by the pounding of your heart in your head.

“Come on, baby… Cum on my hand,” he mutters, teeth scraping your neck and your body releases, fluttering around his fingers.

Your thighs squeeze together as he keeps going, whining against your hand, before he slows his pace.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with his heavy gaze locked on yours, the watch on his wrist glinting.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles as you slip off the counter and into his arms. “I love you—”

“I love you too,” you whisper as your lips find his again, hands sliding down his chest. Your hands slip lower. His shorts are already halfway down his hips, cock trapped beneath the waistband.

“What are you up to, huh?” He asks like he doesn’t already know as you back him into the counter. “Yeah?” He laughs softly. “Bet you won’t.” That challenge barely leaves his mouth before he kisses you again, eyes flicking toward the stairwell mid-kiss before dropping back to you as you sink to your knees.

“In my jersey,” he mumbles as he tilts back, hands resting on top.

He sucks in a sharp breath when the air hits him, shivering when your tongue glides up the side of his cock, tossing back his head as he bites down on his lip, holding back a moan—BANG!

“Fuck me,” he hisses, hanging his head between his shoulders when a bag drops in Logan’s room above you.

Your tongue swipes against his tip and he blows out a sharp breath through his nose, his sticky wet precum catching on it.

“Just—Just a little more,” he mutters, holding your head, following you as you take him in your mouth. You bob back and forth and his grip tightens, eyes fluttering shut—THUMP!

You draw away when you hear some more motion upstairs. He shakes his head, laughing under his breath, watching as you kiss the tip.

“That’s how we’re playin’ this, huh?” Looking back at you in playful frustration, he tugs you up fast, muttering bitterly under his breath as you tug his shorts in place.

“Sorry, baby,” you smile.

“Teasin’ me, baby. Just wait until later,” he warns with a smile, grabbing his workout bag, walking with you back up to his room.

His fingers find yours automatically as the two of you step into the hallway.

Garrett walks a half-step behind you, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your knuckles. You glance over your shoulder and catch him already looking. He drags a hand across his mouth, trying and failing to hide his smile.

You step up one stair, and by the third he already knows he’s in trouble. His number stretched across your back. His last name stamped over your shoulders. The curve of your ass peeking out each time you take a step higher.

The intrusive thoughts win without effort. His other hand reaches out for you, pulling you back and into his strong arms. “Garrett Graham!” You whisper-scream and his deep laugh echoes through the stairwell.

“You are drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles like he's pissed—smiling like he's in love. “I’m just a man, alright? What do you want from me?” Your arms curve loosely around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you, carrying you the rest of the way. “Plus you were walkin’ up the stairs too slow, you needed my help.”

“My hero.”

“Good thing I'm riding by myself. I need some time alone with my thoughts.”

“You’re dramatic,” you cut in, but that only encourages him.

“You know one hand on the wheel, the other doin’ what you started and didn't finish… you're lucky you're gorgeous.”

“So are you,” you smile and he scowls.

By the time he sets you down inside his room, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, shutting the door before anyone can see. “I mean…” Garrett shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Maybe I could stay.”

You give him a look. A long look. And his shoulders slump.

“I know,” he mutters. “Goddamn, baby. You run a tight program.”

“Workout,” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Hockey,” you remind him.

“Mmm… Mhmm,” he hums, so dreamily you laugh. “Fuck, I love when you boss me around—”

“We’ll have all night—”

“How am I supposed to focus now? All I can think about is how pretty you looked trying not to make a sound.” His finger hooks under your chin, lifting your lips to his. “But you... you gotta be careful, baby. These boys are gonna hear you one of these days. They could have caught us down there.”

You look up at him through your lashes ever so slightly and he melts.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, blowing out a tired breath. “You own me—don’t even know why I try.”

He reaches out, grabbing the jersey on your body, pulling you closer. His nose brushes against yours—his lips doing the same, drawing back and leaving you chasing them just enough to notice before he kisses you.

“You don't have class until ten, yeah?” He murmurs between kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wishin’ you were me right now, huh?”

“Wishin’ a lot of things honestly.”

Garrett groans, dropping his forehead to yours, his voice dripping honey-sweet as he takes a different approach. “Shit, baby… what about your coffee? I should probably go get that for you, hmm?”

“Seriously—”

“Then, I don’t know…” He continues when that doesn’t work. “Maybe not get my ass beat at the gym. Sweat here instead. Do something better with my time.”

“You’re gonna be late—”

“And, I wonder why,” he cuts in. “Running out of excuses.”

“What are you gonna tell him, Captain?”

He thinks about it for a moment, stalling still. “Pretty thing. Wears my number. Torments me. Tells me I have to stay or else—”

“Or else, huh?” You giggle, and his eyes fall to your lips. “She sounds like a bitch, baby.”

“—Don’t talk about her like that. That’s my girl.”

“Such a charmer, Garrett Graham,” you hum, twirling one of his curls with your finger. “Leave—” Smack! His hand claps against your ass, the mesh barrier, just another reminder that he can't have you how he'd like.

He batts his hand against the door handle, still unwilling to let you go for another moment.

“Send me a picture or somethin’,” he mumbles against your lips. “You know, for the car ride there.”

“I don’t know, baby. You look extra pretty when you suffer,” you whisper, and he chuckles deeply, the sound going straight through you.

“Gonna ruin you later.”

“M’counting on it…” You smile and his groan breathes against your lips when he pushes open the door.

“Jersey stays on.”

A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.

He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”

“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.

“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.

He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.

“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”

“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”

“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.

“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.

“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”

“You’re keeping score?”

“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.

Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”

“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.

“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.

You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.

“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.

You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”

“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.

“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.

“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.

“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”

You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.

“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”

“That so?” You ask.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.

“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.

You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.

“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.

Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.

“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”

You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.

The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.

Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.

Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.

He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.

“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.

“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.

“I mean maybe,” you admit.

“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.

You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.

“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.

You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.

“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”

You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”

Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.

He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.

You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.

“You like that, huh?” He grunts.

”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.

“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”

“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.

“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“

“Yes, fuck!”

“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.

“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.

He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.

Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.

“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Dean. Please.“

“Please what?” He teases you again.

“Fuck. Me.”

“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.

”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.

Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.

He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.

“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.

“I wanna feel you—”

His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”

“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”

“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.

“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.

He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.

Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.

“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.

“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.

“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.

“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.

Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“

“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”

You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.

“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.

The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.

“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.

Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.

“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”

His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.

You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.

A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.

“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”

You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”

“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.

“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”

Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.

“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.

“That a yes?” He asks.

“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.

“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”

“Was it good?” You taunt.

“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.

Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.

“See? You love me.”

“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.

And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.

“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”

“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.

“Give it a week.”

One time, at a friend's wedding, the bride was doing the traditional bouquet toss. And you, eyes squinted and calculating the probabilities of where the bouquet will land, were standing right in the middle with a stance somewhat close to a horse stance, hands already preparing the perfect grip. The catcher is traditionally believed to be the next in line to be married, so you can't really blame a girl for putting too much effort, can you?

However, as the bouquet was about to reach you just like you previously predicted from your perfectly calculated position, a hand casually reached out above you and snatched it from the air.

"Nice. Free flowers for the living room, babe. These are your favorites, right?" Rafe simply smiled and gently smack your head with the flowers.

"Rafe..." You sigh, knowing damn well the man did not even understand the concept of the tradition.

A round of aww's filled the crowd, which Rafe thought nothing of as he took ahold of your hand and waved his pals goodbye before walking you out of the wedding venue as if he didn't just made the whole crowd believe that you would get married next.

You're not saying he's dumb, no no, Rafe Cameron is not an idiot. He's just... a little slow about hints sometimes.

Like another time when you were lying in bed together, your head on his chest and his arms around your body. You were "coincidentally" holding your phone so high up to the point it's close to his eyesight with pinterest opened on your screen, specifically a secret board filled with wedding inspo's; dresses, cakes, venue decoration, you name it.

Rafe respected your privacy, but he couldn't help but chuckle when he caught a glimpse of the all-white board you opened on pinterest. "That's a lot of white," He said, "You wanna throw an all-white party? Is it like a white themed girly hang out thing? Or a birthday surprise?" He asked, pinching your cheek.

A huff escaped your lips as you rub your cheek, "Sure. Girly hang out thing." You scoffed and slip out of his arms with grumpy mumbling.

"Hey! What did I do now?" Rafe let out a long sigh as he grip your shirt and pull you back down onto the bed.

At some point, he took you out on a shopping day as an apology to whatever it is that made you grumpy that time. Once you reach a jewelery store, you empathize your interest on a certain ring that was advertised as an engagement ring.

"Oh, look how beautiful!" You dramatically gasped as you tried it on, smiling from ear to ear as you practically shoved your hand at his face, eyes sparkling with hope.

Rafe flinched and chuckled, holding your wrist. "Anything is beautiful if it's you wearing it." Rafe winked and pull out his wallet casually, ready to pay and still oblivious.

You really did try not to rip your hair out of your scalp at that moment, placing the ring back onto the counter before grasping onto Rafe's arm and dragging him out, mumbling something about suddenly being uninterested in the ring anymore while he looks at you like you've officially lost your mind.

Well, what did you expect? Even earlier that day, when you dragged him into a bridal boutique's display window, where a mannequin in a beautiful white wedding dress; satin, with delicate laces and a timeless sillhouette along with a gorgeous veil, was linking arms with another mannequin in a suit.

"Oh my god, look! I always wanted to be in a wedding dress!" You'd say, which you thought had been a killer move. "Look how cute the mannequin bride and groom are together, reminds me of us." You said in awe, blinking rapidly and waiting for his response.

But then, he said... "The mannequin groom doesn't have my good jawline though, nor the mannequin bride with your cute smile." As he poke your cheek with a finger before walking past the store.

You're almost convinced he's playing dumb on purpose at this point. But he genuinely looked confused everytime you huff and get all pissy every now and then. Your insides were practically begging for you to just scream at him to "come on and marry me, Rafe!" since he can't even take a big hint.

And so at a simple dinner together at your home, you ponder a question to ask him as you play around with your food using your fork, "Rafe...?" You slowly say with that type of tone you use to start a conversation, "what kind of woman would you marry one day?" You asked with hope glimmering and sparkling in your eyes.

His eyes flicker up from his alfredo pasta, munching on the decent amount he had put in his mouth. "Mm?" He smile softly, taking his time to think as he swallow the chewed up food carefully.

"Well, easy." He shrugged and grinned, "I want a person that would always be on my side, even when I'm losing."

You blink, sitting up straight with a spark of confidence. Who else have been glued shut onto his side whenever he feels down and was at the lowest point of his life? You. Always you.

"A person that would never scheme or lie."

You were positive that Rafe must know that you would never do such thing, there have been not a single fooling in your relationship. To backstab him is to lose half of your head, you vowed to be the most honest and true you've ever been since the beginning.

"Someone to run to when I'm lonely."

A full-on wide, giddy smile is now plastered across your face, biting your lip just the smallest just to hold back an excited shriek and refrain yourself from letting a happy giggle out. If there's anything you know about Rafe is that you were sanctuary number one. The shoulder he rests his heas on. The bed he lay in and find comfort within.

"Geez, sounds an awful lot like Topper, huh?" He laughed out loud, simply turning his attention back to his food.

That smile that once so proudly gracing your face? Dropped immediately in a milisecond as you let out a scoff and rolled your eyes. It took everything in you to stop your face from falling onto the food in your plate out of exhaustion. You push your knife away from your area, careful not to kill yourself or even him while you lay your face in one palm.

Oh just when will your hear your wedding bells?

your other friends then looked your way, and you couldn't help the wide smile taking over your lips, therese letting out a small gasp, "no fucking way!" which made the other girls to come to the conclusion your best friend had come to.

you nodded your head and before you could stand up and hug them, therese nearly threw herself at you and squeezed you, making you let out a laugh as you hugged her back, before standing up to hug your other friends, receiving congratulations.

some hours later, after your other friends had left and therese was the only one left, helping you clean up, when she turned around to face you.

"can't believe you're growing up so fast." she sighed dramatically, making you let out a soft laugh, "i'm three months older than you."

"still. you're having a baby. you have a whole human growing inside of you. i still remember us being kids and you had that doll that you'd feed that weird powder goo to and you'd give it water and it would piss and shit, and you'd bring it everywhere with you in a stroller." therese laughed, "and when any of the boys tried to mess with me and my firstborn you'd threatened to beat them up."

your friend held her arms out and pulled you into a hug, "you're gonna be a great mom. i know how much and how long you've wanted this." "and you're gonna be a great auntie." you chuckled into her hair, "nah. i'm gonna be the awesome aunt who's gonna dye their hair for the first time and take them to get their first tattoo."

you rolled your eyes and pulled away with a fond smile, "if you do that, i'll end you."

you were already in bed reading, when you heard the front door open and close, looking to the bedside clock to see that it was a little over one in the morning. you smiled as you heard rafe let out a muffled curse, already knowing that he hit his knee on the staircase railing like he sometimes did.

he came in through the bedroom door, clearly having made good on his promise to drink which you made a mental note to nag at him about the next morning. "did you have fun?" you laughed softly, rafe letting out incoherent mumbles as you watched him strip himself of his and pants only slightly uncoordinatedly.

your husband flopped onto the bed over the covers, but when you put your book on your nightstand and rolled over to snuggle up to him, rafe suddenly jerked away with a startle.

"whoah! lady!" he looked at you in shock, "what the hell are you doing?" you raised your brows in confusion, "rafe, what… what's up?

"i'm sure you're nice and everything and you're really pretty but i'm a married man." rafe lifted his left hand, his golden wedding band glimmering in his ring finger.

oh. he didn't recognize you. maybe you could have some fun with it.

"really? you are?" you frowned, "that's too bad. i thought you were really handsome."

"i am. i know i am. and my wife knows i am."

"well, you think i'm really pretty. is your wife as pretty as me?" "she's the prettiest. she's sooo… gorgiuful."

you snorted at his choice of words, "tell me more about her." "well, she smells nice. she bakes good. she's smart, and sweet… and we're having a baby." a dumb smile suddenly overtook his lips, and you couldn't help but press a small peck on his cheek, only making him pull further away, "hey!"

"i'm your wife, doofus." you lifted your left hand, rafe's eyes going to your rings and then to your face, rubbing at his eyes before they focused on you, and the goofy smile was back on his lips, "oh, yeah. you're my wife."

you laughed softly, rolling your eyes and softly smacking his bare chest, "you can't even recognize your own wife. i feel betrayed." "'m sorry…" rafe feigned a pout, "how much did you drink?" "mmm… blur. we had to celebrate." "so, you told them?" "of course. my wife's pregnant."

rafe tried to snuggle up to you, but this time, you were the one to pull away, bringing your hand to your nose, "can you shower, baby? you reek."

"that's a mean thing to say." your husband sighed dramatically, before rolling off the bed, "fine. but if i slip and crack my head, it's your fault."

rafe was holding you in his warm embrace, and you were almost half-asleep when you heard rafe speak quietly, "can i… can i ask you something?" you turned around in his arms so you were facing rafe, letting out a soft hum and nodding, "are you scared? about… the baby. about becoming a mom, and stuff."

pursing your lips in thought, you nodded. "yeah. i worry that they're gonna get hurt, they're gonna get sick… that i'm gonna do everything wrong… are you?"

"i'm fucking terrified." rafe let out a self-deprecating laugh, "i think i'm gonna be a shit dad. that our kid's gonna end up hating me. i already know you're gonna be great with them, but i didn't have any good role models. i was a screwed up kid, and i'm worried i'm gonna be too hard on them, and end up screwing them up."

you cupped his cheek, stroking the skin there with your thumb, "i know. but you've worked on yourself a lot. you've been doing good lately. and i think you'll be a great dad. it's gonna be a lot of work, and it's gonna take a lot of patience and dedication, but i think you're going to be the best dad they could ask for. and i'll be here with you. always."

rafe brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand and intertwining your fingers, "what the hell would i do without you?"

you laughed softly, "good thing we don't need to worry about that."

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you'd basically stormed out of work, your anger simmering as you pulled up outside the cameron home, your fist pounding against the door.

"rafe! open the fuck up!" you shouted, only to be left unanswered. you grabbed the fake rock you knew mr. cameron stored the spare key, unlocking the door yourself and letting it slam shut as you rushed up the stairs, your fists clenched.

and when you pulled open the door with your eyes narrowed, they fell upon rafe, sleeping blissfully in his bed, the sight enraging you even more.

"wake the fuck up!" you shouted, pulling the blanket off him, your eyes flickering to his morning wood before focusing back on his face, rafe's eyes starting to flutter open.

"damn, baby." he mumbled in a low, raspy voice that would usually cause shivers to run down your spine, "you miss me that much, huh?"

"what the fuck is this?" you held up your phone, open on the song, rafe's lips widening into a sleepy grin, "you like it? made it just for you." "no, i don't! what in your chipmunk-sized brain made you think i would ever like you putting my voicemail in your shitty ass song?!"

"woah, just because you're mad at me doesn't mean you can diss my art. the song just didn't feel right until i put your message in it. that shit gave it actual meaning, y'know?"

rafe reached out to grab something from his nightstand, and when you saw his vape in his hand, you slapped it off his hand onto the floor, "it's not art, it's an invasion of privacy, dumbass! i never gave you permission to use it!"

"c'mon, i thought it was sweet..." rafe's larger hand took yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your knuckles with his thumb, tugging you closer, "i miss you too..." "rafe, delete it. seriously."

"aight, fine, i'll delete it... don't get all worked up." he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there, "lemme make it up to you." you raised your brows in disbelief at his boldness, "you really think i wanna fuck you after you put my voice in your song without my permission?"

"i know you haven't gotten laid in three weeks..." "and how would you know that?" "well, i know you at least haven't gotten properly fucked in three weeks." rafe tugs you onto his bed, bringing your hands to his warm, chiseled chest, "nobody touches you like i do. we both know that."

"yeah, and no one makes me as angry as you do..." you murmured, your fingers tracing his abs, biting down on your lower lip as rafe looked at you with a lazy grin, sitting up and bringing his face closer to yours, lips only inches away from yours, "but that only makes it hotter, doesn't it?" he whispered.

and if you had been any smarter, or any less horny, you would've pulled your hand away and stormed out. but instead you dove forward, your lips crashing against his.

rafe's head was between your legs, your hand holding onto bleach-blond strands of hair as if for dear life, your brows knitted together, rafe's one of rafe's hand gripping onto your thigh.

"f-fuck, rafe..." you mumbled as you felt him give a sharp suck to your clit, his fingers diving in and out of you causing an obscene squelch to echo in his room, your cheeks warm with embarrassment, "you're so fucking wet... all for me, hm?" rafe's words vibrated through your body at the same time as his long fingers hit that spongy spot inside you, your back arching off the bed as a loud moan left your lips.

"i'll take that as a yes." "s-stop being a s-smartass..." you tugged on his hair, only for rafe to pull back from your pussy, giving it a sharp smack that made you gasp, "don't tell me what to do." rafe said warningly before diving back between your legs, fingers pushing back into you, his tongue circling around your clit teasingly before he gave it another teasing suck.

you arched into his mouth, the hand that wasn't in rafe's hair clenching the sheet underneath you, "god, rafe…" you mumbled, your legs shaking even as he held onto you.

the pleasure tingling in your abdomen grew with every lap of his tongue, with every gentle nip on your folds, with every curl of his fingers inside of you, your clit throbbing as rafe sucked on it, unintelligible whimpers leaving your mouth, "rafe…" you whined, practically grinding into his mouth, chasing the pleasure he was giving you, "fuck, rafe…"

your walls started clenching, spasming around rafe's thick fingers with the force of your orgasm, the pace of his fingers slowing down to help you ride it out, "did so good for me…" he mumbled as he took his fingers out of you, climbing up your body, "open."

your lips parted and as rafe pushed his fingers into your mouth, you could taste yourself at the same time as you felt rafe thrust himself into you, gasping around his digits.

and when rafe pulled his fingers out of your mouth, you felt him pull out of you, a string of saliva connecting his fingers with your lips. "such a good girl…" he murmured, pulling another gasp out of you as he thrust back into you.

the next day as you laid in your own bed, you checked the link your friend had sent you, and the song was gone, a sigh of relief leaving your lips.

but just as you were about to put your phone away to start getting ready for work, you got a message from rafe; it was another soundcloud link followed by a text that said "you happy now?"

you chuckled softly, putting one airpod in your ear and clicking the link. and this time, when you pressed play, it wasn't your drunken voicemail.

"god, rafe..." you heard yourself moan on the track.

and the scream you let out was so loud it might've reached his house.

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Your back is pressed to the bar, one hand clutching your drink, the other buzzing with an incoming call from Rafe. You don’t even look—you just double-tap the side of your phone to decline it, eyes locked on Easton as he leans in, mumbling something about how ‘he’s not scared’.

“Can’t believe you gave your ex my number,” he chuckles, stepping closer. “Could’ve just told me you wanted me to fuck with your ex in exchange for your number. I would’ve done way worse.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, giving him a soft smile, head tilting slightly—and that’s all it takes.

“Nah, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he says, the space between you narrowing.

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to take Rafe’s number, text him, and fuck off. But now he’s looking down at your lips, wetting his own. The kiss he stole earlier still burns on your lips—and from the way he’s looking at you, he wants more.

So you wrap your lips around your straw—keeping yourself busy.

A hand slaps down on Easton’s shoulder—too familiar to be anyone else. “Rafe!” His name slips out on a gasp. Gold ring. Signature watch. Just a flash before he spins him around.

Easton barely has time to blink before Rafe’s fist slams into his jaw—brutal and fast.

He hits the floor hard and the bar erupts around you.

Rafe stands there, chest heaving, shaking out his hand. “You done?” He growls. “Seriously. Are you done now?”

He laughs—low and humorless—as you look up at him, eyes wide.

“Six fucking guys, huh?” He steps forward. “You were really about to give him my number too?”

“No…”

“Oh? Finally got some sense, huh?”

“You know him… it’s Easton,” you breathe—just as the other man groans, stumbling to his feet between you. Crack—another hit, straight to the face drops him again.

“I told you to stay away from her—HEY!” The word rips from Rafe’s throat as two bouncers grab him from behind. “I’M TALKIN’ TO HER!” He shouts.

You sip slow and careful, trying not to smile but the corners of your lips betray you. And Rafe sees it.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” He snarls, eyes drilling into you.

You just look at him, drink half-raised, face calm even as your pulse skitters.

The crowd parts around him as the bouncers drag him toward the door—all six-foot-two of him fighting every inch of the way.

They toss him outside like garbage, but he never stops looking back at you.

Nostrils flared. Lips tight. Jaw locked like stone. Red and blue police lights flicker across his face as the doors close.

You know he’s not gonna push it. Too much security. And a night in jail would leave no possibility of a night with you.

He’s not done.

The bar’s still buzzing behind you as you and your friends slide into the back of the Uber.

You barely settle into the middle seat when someone else climbs in behind you fast… uninvited. “Rafe—” You gasp for the second time of the night.

He slams the door shut before you can react, settling in beside you, fastening his seatbelt. Your friends exchange a look, both trying not to laugh. Honestly, they expected no less.

Your friend lays out her hand to the other— “Pay up, babe.”

Bailey groans dramatically from the front seat. Slaps a five in Hannah’s hand with an eye-roll.

“You two bet on this shit, seriously?” Rafe mutters under his breath.

“Mhmm.” Hannah hums, smug. “I said he was gonna get her on the street.”

“I said you were gonna try to break in and get arrested,” Bailey sighs like she’s disappointed.

“I told you, Bails. He’s predictable,” Hannah chuckles, like Rafe’s not even there.

Bailey gives you the look and you wink. She glances at the wide-eyed Uber driver, his night taking a turn for the dramatic real fast. “We’ll catch another Uber—I’m starving,” she mutters, pushing the door open.

Rafe’s hand shoots out—grabbing your arm like he really thought you might leave him behind. “Don’t,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Are you—Is everything okay?” The driver asks, and you chuckle tiredly and nod.

“Just perfect,” you mutter, voice flat and sarcastic—just enough to make Rafe’s head snap to you in disgust.

You blow out a raspberry, digging in your purse for your lip gloss, denying him the attention he’s so clearly starving for. You unscrew the cap slowly, dragging the wand across your bottom lip like it’s no big deal—like your ex-boyfriend didn’t just knock a guy out at a bar for saying his name, then climb into your Uber like some movie villain. Like this is just how your Wednesday nights go now.

You click the gloss shut and fluff your hair, adjust your cleavage, fixing the little R pendant on your chest.

“You done?” Rafe asks, annoyed—but you ignore him still. Instead, you lift your phone, angling it slightly downward, pout soft, eyes softer; chin tilted just right—and flash.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rafe recoils, disgust painted all over his face because a part of him knows exactly who that’s for.

You hum lightly, scrolling through your messages until you find the thread.

Easton…

📱Easton Lookout Bar 🏒🧸: Damn tonight was crazy. I hope you’re okay.

📱Your Name: How are you doing?

📱Easton Lookout Bar 🏒🧸: I’m fine. Just a little banged up.

You scroll a little lower, taking the time to let Rafe read it as well.

Your Name: Oh no is it bad 🥺

Rafe sucks his teeth, looking away for a moment to collect his thoughts as he sees the top of a picture sent from Easton—and a double-tap, heart reaction from you.

You roll your thumb a little lower—making sure Rafe sees. And of course Easton’s shirtless. Of course he looks like every hockey boyfriend romance main character after a rough game. Abs on full display, split lip and a black eye, one arm folded and flexed behind his head.

His eyes are a rich chocolate brown—black hair damp from a shower, skin dewy, eyes fixed on the camera like he wants you to come fix the damage he got from your ex.

📱Your Name: I’m so sorry about my ex. That looks like it hurts.

“Don’t,” Rafe warns.

📱Your Name: I can stop by if you need a little distraction tonight 💕

You tap the plus sign on the bottom of your text messages, uploading the selfie you just took.

“Enough,” Rafe snaps, snatching your phone from your hand.

But that sick little whoosh already hit.

📲 Message delivered. Too late.

His jaw flexes once, then again, like he’s chewing glass. He blinks at the screen like he might still have a chance—like if he grips the phone hard enough, the message might crawl back out.

💬 Read.

“Oh my god,” Rafe’s eyes fall shut and his head tips back to the headrest. He takes a tight breath, blowing it out his nostrils, hands clutching his legs, fingers digging in to keep himself from falling to pieces. “Baby… what kind of game are you playin’ here?”

He lifts your phone between you like it’s evidence, and you can already see back-to-back notifications coming in from Easton.

“I honestly don’t think I can fuckin’ look at this reply without killing him.”

“That’s a lot—”

“You really sent that to him? To him? Really? You want me to lose it? Is that what you want?” His voice breaks—hoarse and broken. You lean a little deeper into the seat, crossing your arms. “He’s got that picture in his phone forever,” he fumes.

“It’s a selfie… it’s not like I sent him a nude. Calm the fuck down.”

“You—You wanted me here. Don’t act like you didn’t. Why else would you do this shit? You know who I am. You knew I’d lose it and come find you. You let him touch you—fucking kiss you.”

“He bought me a drink,” you say flatly.

“Yeah, and I broke his fucking face,” he answers with the same tone, the vein in his neck pulsing; knuckles white as they clutch your phone.

“Give me my phone, Rafe—”

“You’re not texting him. I know you don’t want to either. I could see it on your fuckin’ face. You didn’t give a shit about him when I hit him. You weren’t scared for him. You were watching me. Your texts to him are dry as fuck. I remember vividly how you were talking to me when we first started dating—even before we took a break,” he murmurs. “Just say you miss me. Say you wanted me to follow you. Just say it—so I don’t feel like a complete fucking idiot right now.”

“All that time, Rafe. Day after day, spent showing you how much I cared for you and it still wasn’t enough for you, until it was too late. I wanted you to sweat—”

“Mission fucking accomplished, sweetheart,” he huffs out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyelids fall shut. “I know I deserve this shit and I'm so fucking sorry. I will work on my shit—but you could’ve stopped at the first or second and got your point across—”

The Uber pulls up to the curb and you step out, heels slapping against the pavement.

Rafe moves to follow you, and you slam the door behind you, hitting him clumsily—making him fumble forward as he rushes to catch up.

“Shit. Fuck,” he hisses.

“Oh. Were you planning on coming in?” You ask without so much as a glance over your shoulder at the broken man behind you, dragging himself up the stairs.

“You serious?”

“I didn’t ask you over.”

Rafe’s shoes hit the stairs—loud and angry. “Give me five fucking minutes—”

His palm slams against the door above you, holding it open, refusing to give you the chance to push him away again. He’s coming inside.

You start up the stairs, and he follows.

Your phone starts to ring in Rafe’s fist, the sound echoing through the empty house like a warning bell—chills race down your spine.

The growl that escapes him is animalistic, clawing out of his throat.

“DON’T SAY A FUCKIN’ WORD,” he barks into your phone at Easton. “DON’T EVEN FUCKING BREATHE. I TOLD YOU TO FUCK OFF. I TOLD YOU SHE WAS MINE, ALRIGHT? YOU THINK SHE WAS SENDING YOU THAT SHIT BECAUSE SHE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOU?”

You bite your lip, holding back a nervous smile, adrenaline coursing through your veins as he storms up the steps behind you.

“SHE’S MINE,” Rafe growls. “YOU HEAR ME? IF YOU EVER CALL HER AGAIN—IF YOU EVER LOOK AT HER AGAIN—YOU’RE DEAD. DEAD. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

He ends the call just as your bedroom door slams shut behind you, his back hitting it with a heavy thud.

Silence.

His chest rises slowly. Eyes fall shut. You don’t move, and neither does he—his breathing shredded like he just ran from the cops instead of ending a call with some hockey boy named Easton.

He watches every step as you cross the room, tracks every flick of your fingers as you toss your keys on the dresser, pull your earrings off one by one. You don’t even spare him a glance—you know that’ll be the final blow.

You sit on the edge of the mattress. Finally, your gaze lifts.

And he looks destroyed.

Rafe rests his hands over his eyes, muscles clenched tight, dragging them down his face as he moves toward you slowly.

And just when you thought he couldn’t possibly look more ruined for you, he sinks to the floor—one knee, then the other. His head bows between his broad shoulders. A long, winded breath leaves his chest before he raises his eyes to meet yours.

“Baby,” he says softly, his voice already fraying at the edges. “I—I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start, okay?”

You press your lips together, letting him unspool.

“I know I hurt you,” he goes on. “I know I fucked up. I know I let my jealousy eat me alive for no reason. You’re fucking perfect. And I… I’m a mess. I know I am. Especially when I think about someone coming in between me and you—and fucking it up. And then I go and fuck it up myself.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched, eyes glossy.

“You were so fucking good to me. I'm begging you please, please stop. I'm so sorry.”

Then, slowly, you part your knees—just slightly.

Rafe sees it and breathes deeper, moving in—settling as close as you’ll let him. He rests his head in your lap, hands finding your hips as the tension bleeds from his body.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “I’m not okay. I’m not. Not without you.”

You rest your hand on his head, fingers slipping into his messy hair.

“I need you,” he says, voice barely audible.

You stroke his cheek and he shuts his eyes, living in your touch.

“Co’mere,” you murmur, guiding him to look up at you. You hold his cheeks in your palms—and you swear you see the glimmer of tears in his eyes, his nose scrunching slightly like he’s begging them not to fall.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“You got no idea how much I missed you,” he breathes, dragging his hand down your arm, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “M’sorry for callin’ you so much—I lost it a little—”

“A little?” you giggle breathily.

“A lot… I was a fuckin’ problem.”

“You’re not allowed to break my heart again, Rafe,” you say softly.

“I won’t, baby. You got my word.”

He slips his hands beneath your thighs and lifts you. Your legs wrap around his waist, chest to chest, your palms still cupping his cheeks, your eyes locked on his, and he kisses you, like he’s trying to erase the days apart from his memory—the nights spent wishing he could get over you.

You tighten your legs around his waist as he carries you toward the bed—kissing you harder with every step.

His forehead presses to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing unsteady. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “I’ll never do that shit again.”

Your fingers skim the side of his neck, feeling the thump of his pulse—fast and nervous. You wait just a moment, until his eyes meet yours again.

“I swear to God, baby,” he says, voice raw. “I’ll never accuse you like that again. I won’t let my jealousy ruin us. Just—” He swallows hard. “Can we try to go back to us?”

“Yes,” you whisper and he steals the words straight off your lips.

The kiss deepens.

His mouth parts against yours, tongue sweeping slow and hungry, tasting you. You moan into him as your hands slide up his chest, twisting the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer. His hips press forward, grinding slow and heavy between your legs.

Rafe breaks the kiss just long enough to tear his shirt over his head, tossing it blindly. His chest heaves—skin flushed, jaw tight. That gold chain swings at his collarbone, catching the light.

And then he’s on you again. Mouth on your neck. Your shoulder. Biting just hard enough to make your breath catch.

“I missed you so fuckin’ bad,” he groans into your skin.

You grab the back of his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him harder now—hungry and open, your teeth catching on his bottom lip.

“I missed you too, baby.”

“Love when you call me that,” he mutters against your skin, hot breath skating over your skin as he tugs at your dress. “Take this off. Let me see you.”

You grab the bottom of your dress—already bunched around your waist—pulling it over your head.

“Fuck me…” His hands are already on your body, sliding up—palms hot and rough—and then he’s mouthing at your chest, sucking at the gentle skin of your cleavage.

He shoves his jeans down, cock already straining through black briefs. You lick your lips as your gaze drops—panties clinging, lace wet between your thighs.

His voice drops to a dangerous rasp, fingers slipping between your legs to pull the fabric tight against you.

Your thighs bracket his hips. He’s still catching his breath when you lift a hand to his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip.

“I hated that you didn’t trust me,” you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “It fucking hurt, Rafe.”

“I know, pretty—”

“But…” You press your lips to his neck, working slowly up his skin, lips brushing his ear. “Seeing you like that? Losing it over me?”

You grab his hand—knuckles bruised and split—bringing his fingers to your lips.

“So fucking hot,” you hum, sliding two of his fingers into your mouth, slow and deliberate. The tips press against your tongue and your lips seal tight, cheeks hollowing.

Rafe lets out the filthiest groan as you swirl your tongue—just like you would if it were his cock in your mouth—and you know from the look on his face that he’s fantasizing about that as well.

“You like me possessive?” He asks, pulling your panties down, dragging your thighs apart. “You want me obsessed?” He asks as you whimper a soft ‘yes’. “You fuckin’ got it.”

You try to smirk but it falters when he bites your thigh, a sharp gasp fleeing your parted lips as he leaves his mark.

“You’re mine. Say it,” Rafe breathes.

“I’m yours,” you pant, head tipping back.

He pushes his briefs down his legs, cock swinging free. Long and hard; thick and throbbing. His dick presses against your thigh, tip dragging along your slit as he lines himself up.

He drives into you, burying himself to the hilt.

He fucks into you hard—jealousy fueling every thrust, like he needs to brand you from the inside out.

Your gasp snaps into a moan, back arching off the mattress, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in.

“Rafe, fuck—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he pants against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, every thrust deep and punishing. “You feel what you do to me?” He grits. “Every time I close my fuckin’ eyes it’s you—this pussy, this face, this fuckin’ mouth.”

You pull him down by his chain, crashing your lips to his again. Your teeth scrape his lip, his tongue licking into your mouth. You’re so wet he slides in and out of you with ease, obscene sounds echoing between your bodies.

He grinds down, hips circling, making your breath catch. “Yes,” you cry, clenching around him, and he groans—loud and filthy.

“Look at you. Crying on my cock—”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Rafe’s phone lights up on the edge of the bed, vibrating with an unknown number and a local area code. Your breath catches and Rafe freezes for a moment.

“This some guy from the bar, ain’t it?” He asks, slamming his hips forward so hard your body jolts, skin smacking against his. “Fuck, pretty girl. You made a goddamn mess for me, huh?” He mutters through gritted teeth.

Before you can even answer, he snatches the phone and takes the call.

“WHAT?” He snarls into the speaker, sweat dripping off his brow, bicep flexing as he squeezes your hip, keeping you flush to him.

“Rosie?” You hear on the other end, tentative and confused.

Rafe’s hand cracks against your thigh—sharp and stinging—you scream, breathless and broken, your voice spilling straight into the phone. He clamps his big hand around your throat, using the leverage to slam into you harder.

“YOU HEAR THAT, BITCH?” Rafe snarls as a self-satisfied smile stretches across his lips.

He throws the phone somewhere beside you without bothering to end the call. His hands hook behind your thighs, folding you in half, pinning you to the bed as he drives into you. Your nails claw at the sheets, then at his back, then into his hair, pulling at the roots.

“Rafe—Rafe, holy shit—” He dips down to kiss you—his cock sinking impossibly deep. “You’re right there. C’mon, pretty girl. Give it to me.”

Your head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as your body tightens, every muscle trembling as he keeps hitting that exact spot.

“C’mon, baby. Let him hear who makes you cum.”

Your orgasm rips through you so hard your back arches off the bed, a choked sob escaping your lips as you clamp around him, shaking under his weight.

“That’s it,” he whispers against your mouth, still thrusting through the aftershocks. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You’re soaking him, dripping down your thighs, pulsing around him as he keeps fucking you through it, working you toward another.

“Feel that mess you made?” He asks, smugness dripping from every word. “Proud of you, baby. So filthy for me.”

“Feel so good,” you manage, barely forming words.

“One more—just one more. Need you on top.”

He pulls out fast, making you gasp at the loss of him. Rafe wraps his hand around his dick, pumping as he watches you climb on top, hovering over him; delicate fingers circling your clit as he licks his bottom lip.

You spread your thighs, sinking on his tip, taking the first few inches, moving up and down teasingly before you take the rest—eyes locked on his, nails digging into his chest.

You ride him hard, your bodies colliding in messy, rhythmic slaps, the sounds of your pleasure filling the room.

Rafe can’t keep quiet—his moans, his praise, his ragged breathing filling the room. You know if that fucker is still on the phone, he wants him to hear all of it. Rafe grabs your waist, lifting you slightly only to slam up into you.

“You’re gonna cum for me again,” he rasps. “Right fucking now.”

And you do—your belly tightens, the band snaps, and his name tumbles past your lips as your head falls back. Your throat’s ragged from sobbing his name, thighs drenched in sweat and slick, shining under the low light.

“Goddamn, baby,” he mutters, reaching up, hooking a hand around the back of your neck to kiss you. You’re breathing heavily and so is he—a breathy chuckle buzzing against your lips.

“Go on,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “Get on your knees.”

Your whole body trembles as you lift off his length, hissing in overstimulation, knees pressing against the bedroom floor. You look up at him from between his legs—mascara smudged, hair wild, eyes glassy, chest rising fast.

Rafe reaches for his phone, grabbing it off the bed. The call ended seconds ago. He taps the screen a few times—then points the camera right at you as you open your mouth, tongue out.

His other hand wraps around his cock, tapping the swollen tip against your tongue; your mouth already pillowy and wet from kissing.

You wrap your lips around him and he groans instantly, jaw dropping, one hand slipping into your hair. You taste yourself on him and moan around his length as you take him deeper.

“Christ… Just—Just like that, baby,” he pants, guiding your head, using your mouth to stroke him slow, then faster. You let him use you—let him fuck your throat—spit slicking your chin as your eyes water and your hands grip his thighs for balance.

The phone is still trained on your lips, trembling in his hand, catching every moan, every gag, every obscene sound.

He bites his lip, hips jerking. “Close, baby. Shit—I’m fuckin’ close—”

He pulls out, stroking hard, warm ropes of cum painting your lips, your tongue, your chest.

Your hands are trembling against his legs, looking up at him as he looks down at you. “Fuck, baby,” he mumbles as he grabs you by your cheeks to get a better look.

His thumb rubs his cum along your lips, slipping it inside your mouth. You suck it clean, releasing it with a filthy pop.

“God, you’re fuckin’ stunning, you know that?” He drawls, voice syrupy and spent, eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue. His thumb drags across your cheek, gathering a drop of his own cum and pressing it past your lips. “Say it again for the camera, angel—who the fuck do you belong to?”

You lean into the lens, licking the corner of your mouth clean, eyes gleaming. “Rafe Cameron.”

“That’s fuckin’ right.”

(we all know how he is throughout the second season, so i feel like him seeing you, but also himself in the mirror would get him off so quick.)

rafe with his hands on your hips, pulling you back onto him over and over while your hands brace themselves on the mirror in front of you. your mouth is dropped open, eyebrows furrowed, spine bowed.

"god, fuck," rafe grunts from behind you. "feel so good around me — jesus." you spare a look at his face through the mirror and oh.

his entire focus is on himself. it's almost like you're not even there.

he moves one of his hands from your waist, his attention still on himself, and pulls you up so your back is against his chest. his hand settles around your throat.

"fuck." you gasp. both of your hands wrap around the wrist that's around your throat. you look back in the mirror and what a sight.

you're completely bare, a slick sheen of sweat covers your body, legs trembling, and if you focus hard enough, you can see a very small protruding bump right above your pelvic bone every time rafe pounds in.

you spare a glance at rafe again and your brain goes fuzzy, your stomach erupting in that familiar feeling of need.

he's still lost in the reflection of himself. completely covered in you, by you, not wanting to space a centimeter of space between the two of you.

"rafe, please. god," your eyes roll back in pleasure as he keeps hitting that one spot so deep inside of you.

"so deep, oh god. so deep." you whine. you open your eyes to what vanthink in without a doubt the most erotic thing you have ever seen in your life up until that point.

rafe leans the side of his head against yours and moans. mouth wide open, spit slick lips bright red, half-lidded eyes stare at himself in the glass mirror.

the sound is guttural, almost inhumane; something you've never heard come out of his mouth. his glazed eyes still pay you no mind, and then.

and then his eyes roll back into his head, a familiar move you've seen whether in a sexual manner or trying to talk some sense into someone who ends up making him angry, deranged. his hand grips tighter around your throat, his hips moving at a faster pace.

the realization settles deep in your fucked our brain; he's getting off to the sight of himself. evidently loving the way he looks, immersed in now he loses it when buried inside of you.

it happens all at once. your orgasm hits you out of nowhere with a strained cry, the thought of rafe being so enamored with himself and the feeling of being stuffed so full. your knees give out, but you don't hit the floor. he catches you, an arm wrapping tightly around your torso.

but he doesn't stop.

he chases his own pleasure, rutting into you with no abandon.

The house was already shaking by the time you pulled up. Music thumping through the walls, lights bleeding through the windows, laughter spilling out the front door in waves.

Typical.

Kooks always threw the same kind of party.

Big house. Loud music. Too much money. Not enough sense.

And him—your ex.

Poster boy for it all.

If you’d had any sense, you would’ve waited until morning to grab your stuff. But he’d texted you earlier, something smug about “tonight’s fine,” and you weren’t in the mood to drag it out. 

You just wanted your things back. 

Heads turned the second you stepped inside, bag slung over your shoulder. The air was thick—sweat, perfume, bass vibrating through the floor. Eyes followed you, some with pity, most with that hungry curiosity Kooks always had for drama that wasn’t theirs.

And then there he was.

Leaning against the counter, beer in hand, that same smirk already in place like he’d been practicing it just for you.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” your ex called out, voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

You forced a thin smile. “Just here for my stuff.”

He pushed off the counter, strolling closer until he was right in front of you, confidence dripping from every step.

“Come on. We both know why you’re really here,” he said, tone dipping low—what he probably thought sounded smooth. The smell of alcohol didn’t help his case. 

You frowned, face scrunching up in disgust.

“Yeah. To get my shit and leave.” You said flatly, before turning toward the stairs.

But he moved faster, cutting you off.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?”

You scoffed, arms crossing tight. “What’s to miss? The love triangle between you, me, and your ego?”

That one hit. You saw it in the flicker of his jaw before he recovered.

“Don’t act like that, baby,” he drawled, still trying, still not reading the fucking room.

You rolled your eyes so far back you might’ve slipped into another dimension.

“I’m not your baby. And I’m not acting. Move.” You shoved past him. Hard enough that his drink sloshed in his hand, nearly spilling down his shirt. 

He was still running his mouth as you headed for the stairs—every word confirming exactly why you’d left in the first place.

By the time you hit the second floor, the music had dulled to a low, distant thud beneath your feet.

His room looked the same as it always had. The same tangled sheets. The same clothes on the floor. That same heavy mix of overpriced cologne and cheap arrogance still clinging to the air, sharp and overdone, like he thought it could cover everything else.

The feeling tugged at you—strained, bitter—but you pushed it down. You dropped your bag on the edge of the bed and crossed to the dresser, pulling drawers open one by one. You grabbed what was left: a few shirts, your perfume, things you didn’t even remember leaving behind.

In the bathroom, you scooped up the rest with one arm. Skincare, hair ties, half-used bottles that had been sitting there too long. You didn’t stop to check what was worth keeping. Just kept moving, focused on leaving as fast as you could.

All that was left was the nightstand, cluttered with smaller things. An extra charger. Lip balm. A book. Little reminders that once, you’d actually lived here.

You stepped out of the bathroom, quietly cursing under your breath about how ridiculous this all was. About how ridiculous he was.

The zipper on your bag rasped faintly as you tucked the last few bottles inside, the quiet sound almost lost beneath the bass thudding from downstairs. You straightened, brushing your hands against your thighs, already turning toward the nightstand—

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Quick. Sharp.

It slammed shut just as fast, the echo cutting through the music below.

You froze mid-step, pulse skipping as your eyes locked on the figure now standing in front of the door, his back to you.

Broad. Solid. Familiar.

A silhouette you recognized maybe a little too quickly.

Rafe. 

His shoulders were tight, like he was bracing for something. Or maybe trying to outrun it.

Your eyes lingered longer than they should have, tracing the tension in his back, the slow rise and fall of his frame. You tilted your head slightly, curiosity slipping into something quieter, something sharper. Because Rafe Cameron didn’t run from anything.

Not people. Not consequences.

He moved through spaces like the world would part for him eventually. Like time itself would slow down just to fall at his feet. And it usually did.

So what the hell had him slipping into rooms, shutting doors like he needed to hide?

The corner of your mouth lifted.

“What are you doing?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t sharp, just amused. 

Intrigued, even.

He turned, slow but unbothered, like he’d only just now realized he wasn’t alone. A red solo cup hung from his hand, paired with that same unreadable ease he alway had stamped across his face.

Then his eyes met yours.

His lips twitched up—just barely. It was something crooked, but subtle.

“Hi,” he said. Voice low. Lazy. Like he had no intention of explaining himself.

And knowing him, he probably didn’t.

“Hi,” you echoed, tone matching his, but you didn’t let him steer the conversation. Your smile tugged wider as you took a slow step closer, eyes narrowing just enough to make it playful.

“What are you doing in here?”

A soft chuckle slipped out of him, deep and smooth. His lips parted, maybe to give one of those half-answers he was famous for.

Then you heard it.

A voice from the hallway.

High. Loud. Whiny.

“Rafe?”

It dragged out like a complaint. Followed by another, more desperate call.

“Rafeee—come on.”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightened. Just for a second. Like even hearing her voice scraped against something in him.

You glanced toward the door, then back at him.

“I see,” you said, laughing under your breath.

He smirked faintly, lifting his cup for another drink, but his eyes stayed on you, steady and unblinking.

And you felt it—the weight of his stare sinking low in your stomach, warm and heavy.

It had always been like that.

That quiet pull that existed long before you ever admitted it to yourself. The kind that lived in glances that lasted too long and silences that said too much. It was always there, thick in the air, but never acted on.

Your ex made sure of that.

Rafe was “bad news,” “not your type,” “off-limits.”

The one time you’d slipped—bumped into Rafe at a party and muttered a quick apology—it had been enough to start one of those “boundaries” arguments your ex liked to rehash. Over and over. Like saying sorry was a betrayal.

And maybe it was. Not because of you, but because of the way Rafe had looked at you that night—the same way he was looking at you now. Like the room had narrowed to just the two of you, and he didn’t mind letting you know it.

From the hallway, the girl’s voice rose again. Louder this time. Dragging out his name in that grating tone that made it sound like a plea.

Rafe sighed under his breath, muttering something you almost missed. “Shouldn’t have even come. Don’t even like the guy.”

He followed it with a roll of his eyes and a slow shake of his head, like the whole night was one long mistake he was trying to blink out of existence. That familiar mix of irritation and indifference—his signature—settled across his face as he glanced away for a second, then right back to you.

You knew they weren’t real friends, Rafe and your ex. They were more like mutually tolerated acquaintances—something about deals, favors, image. That kind of friendship didn’t last without alcohol or an audience.

Still, you teased. 

“If you don’t like him,” you asked, eyes skimming the rim of his cup before meeting his stare again, “then why are you here?”

Rafe’s gaze dragged over you like he was weighing his words, deciding if silence said it better.

When he finally opened his mouth, he flipped it cleanly.

“Why are you?”

You caught it immediately—the shift, the way he dodged without ever breaking eye contact. Typical. But this time, you didn’t press. You let him have the out.

A soft sigh slipped past your lips as you turned toward the bed, the reminder of why you even came here cutting clean through the haze.

“Just grabbing my stuff.” You said, voice taut and measured.

It wasn’t defensive. Just honest. You didn’t owe him more than that.

He nodded slightly, still watching you.

“Yeah, I heard you guys broke up. Shame.”

Your eyes snapped back to him, fast and sharp. “I don’t think so.”

Rafe smirked—not wide, just enough to crease the corner of his mouth. Like he’d been waiting for that.

Then—

“I wasn’t saying it for you.”

His words came smooth and low, carrying a rough edge that landed exactly where they shouldn’t have. Right in that place you pretended didn’t exist—the one you’d denied a hundred times.

You shook your head, trying to clear it, and stepped toward the nightstand for the last of your things.

Rafe didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe like he belonged there, one hand wrapped around the solo cup, the other tucked loose into his pocket. His eyes tracked you, slow and steady, dragging over every shift of your body with a focus that pressed heat into your spine.

The silence stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. It hung thick in the room, weighted and electric. It curled around your body, crept up your legs, settled just beneath your skin.

You swung your bag over your shoulder and turned toward the door, ready to walk out like you hadn’t noticed. Like your pulse wasn’t racing.

But he was there.

In front of the door again. Still. Calm. Blocking nothing and everything all at once.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there with the same unreadable expression. The kind that made it hard to tell if he was daring you to leave or waiting for you not to.

Standing that close, the pull hit again. Harder this time.

You could smell the liquor on his breath—sweet and sharp. Feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It filled the space between you, made the distance feel smaller than it was.

You swallowed once, tightening your grip on the strap over your shoulder.

“Have a good night,” you said, voice quiet but steady.

He matched it, tone easy. “You too.”

Your eyes lingered on his face, slow enough to give you away. The sharp angle of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his lips parted slightly when your gaze dropped to them. A subtle twitch curved the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly where your thoughts were heading.

Heat curled low in your stomach, thick and undeniable. The air between you thinned. Every inch of space suddenly felt too loud, too charged, too full of the tension you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there.

You felt it in the silence. In the way both of you held still. In the way you waited for the other to break first.

And then—

Fuck it.

You dropped your bag without a second thought, barely hearing it hit the floor. Your hands were already reaching for him, fingers hooking around the back of his neck as you pulled him in fast. 

Your mouth crashed into his like you were mad at him for how good it felt. Like the silence, the glances, the weight of his stare had finally worn you down to this.

Rafe moved just as quick.

The red cup left his hand in an instant, beer splashing out as it hit the floor somewhere behind you. He didn’t look to see where it landed. Didn’t care. His hands were already on you, urgent and greedy, dragging down your back, gripping your waist.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt, mouth parting wider as his tongue slid against yours, deep and rough. His grip on you was bruising, palms locked at your hips like he’d been waiting too long to touch you and wasn’t about to be gentle about it.

The kiss turned desperate—messy, breathless, all tongue and teeth and the sound of shallow breathing between half-formed moans. Every step he took pushed you backward until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed. His weight pressed you into the mattress, the sheets twisting beneath you until—

You felt it.

Something hard, wedged beneath your back.

You broke the kiss just enough to reach down, fingers brushing over the fabric before closing around it. Your chest tightened the moment you brought it into view.

A phone.

His phone.

Your ex’s.

You hadn’t even noticed it earlier in the mess of the unmade bed.

For a second, neither of you moved. The silence stretched thick between your bodies, the weight of it pressing into your ribs. Then your gaze found his again, a flicker of amusement cutting through the heat. 

Something passed between you. Unspoken. Instant.

Rafe’s eyes dropped to the phone, then back to you, slow and wicked, before a laugh slipped out. 

Then came the smirk. Heavy. Knowing. Like he’d just been handed a gift he wasn’t about to waste.

The air in the room shifted.

Sharper. Dirtier. Meaner in all the right ways.

Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the nightstand, voice low.

“There. Prop it against the lamp.”

Rafe didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate.

He walked over, flipped the phone in his palm, then swiped to the left. The screen lit up instantly, camera open from the lock screen. With one tap, he flipped it to video then pressed record, setting it in place with a casualness that made your skin prickle.

From that angle, your face barely even showed in the frame. But Rafe's? Clear as day. And he didn’t care. If anything, he seemed proud of it.

He turned back to you just as you opened the nightstand drawer.

Your hand reached in, grabbed one of the condoms your ex always kept stashed there. You held it up between two fingers, brows raised in silent question.

Rafe glanced down at it, then up—his eyes dragging over you in one slow pass before a rough, amused laugh slipped out.

“That’s not gonna work,” he said, grin cutting wide. “Too small.”

The jab landed exactly where it was meant to, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth curled. A breathless sound escaped as you tossed the condom across the room without another thought.

Rafe was already leaning in, his mouth catching yours before you could say anything, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other gripped your thigh, pulling you closer.

The kiss turned fast. Messy. His teeth scraped your bottom lip as his tongue pushed deeper. He moved with you, climbing back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he adjusted his hold. 

You shifted with him, bodies tangling, lips never separating as you both pushed further into the sheets. His hands roamed without pause, sliding up under your shirt, over your stomach, each touch making your breath catch against his mouth.

Your shirt was gone a moment later, pulled over your head and flung somewhere near the pillows. His hands were already moving lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts and yanking them down, leaving only the thin stretch of your panties behind.

You reached for him next, tugging at the fabric clinging to his chest until he leaned back just enough for you to strip it off. The cotton slid away, revealing muscle and the sharp lines that cut down his stomach. Your fingers trailed over his skin, slow at first, then lower, finding his belt.

Rafe watched you the whole time, smug and silent, while you worked him out of every layer. The buckle clinked under your touch, his pants dragging down his legs before hitting the floor with a thud. His boxers followed, and then he was bare in front of you.

When your gaze dropped, the air caught in your throat.

He was hard already, thick and full, the flushed head slick against his stomach. It sat heavy between you, impossible to ignore, and even harder to forget. You didn’t need to say it—one look and it was obvious.

That condom wouldn’t have stood a chance.

You glanced back up at him, jaw tight with the effort not to react, not to give him the satisfaction. But it was too late. He was already smirking, that same cocky tilt to his mouth that said it all.

Told you so.

His voice came next, low and rough—

“Turn around.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. 

You moved fast, quicker than you ever had in your ex’s bed. Your knees sank into the mattress as you turned to face the headboard, hands bracing against the cool sheets. You arched your back just enough, offering more, and behind you, you heard him exhale through his teeth. The sound was sharp, guttural, and it only made your stomach coil tighter.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand, to the phone propped perfectly in place. The screen reflected the shape of your body, the silhouette of Rafe moving behind you. His hand slid along your waist, steadying you as the other slipped lower, hooking your panties to the side before he lined himself up.

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance—just barely—before he pushed in hard, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch of him ripped a broken moan from your throat, your arms buckling under the weight of it. He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t pull out slow—just gripped your waist tighter and fucked into you like he meant it.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice roughening against the sound of skin on skin. “I knew you’d be this good. Knew it every damn time you looked at me and didn’t say a word.”

You whimpered into the air, thighs trembling under him, the friction almost too much and the praise making it worse. Your hands scrambled for traction, clutching the sheets, but he held you steady, rhythm merciless.

“You’re taking it so well,” he gritted out, hips pounding into yours. “So fuckin’ good.”

You moaned louder, head dropping forward. Each thrust pulsed through every nerve, your breath stuttering as your body hovered between pain and pleasure, desperate to keep up with him.

“Fuck,” he said, voice sharp now, pitched just enough to carry. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you back into every stroke. “No wonder you’re so pissed all the time.”

You thought he was talking to you at first—until his next one hit.

“Pussy like this, and you still couldn’t keep her?”

Your brows pulled together. Confused. Caught halfway between breathless and blank. Then your eyes slid sideways—back to the camera.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Looking dead into the lens.

You gasped, the realization crawling up your spine faster than his rhythm. Dizzying. Raw.

He wasn’t talking to you.

He was talking to your ex. No shame. No hesitation.

“I’d be mad too,” Rafe said, voice thick. His eyes stayed locked on the lens, mouth curling into something dark. “Had all this and fucked it up.”

His hips never slowed. Never faltered.

He kept driving into you, hard and wet and ruthless, every thrust hitting deep, every snap of his hips landing like a full-stop.

Like he meant every single word.

Rafe leaned forward, his chest brushing your back, breath hot against your ear.

“Bet he never fucked you like this, huh?”

The words scraped down your spine, low and ragged, grinding straight into the center of you.

A soft, broken sound slipped from your throat as your eyes fluttered shut, jaw going slack. His voice, the snap of his hips against your ass, the wet drag of friction between your thighs—it all filled the room in a way you couldn’t escape.

“All that time he spent whining about me…” Rafe grunted, driving into you harder. “And he couldn’t even make you come right.”

Your moan cracked open at the end, wrecked and raw. “Rafe—fuck.”

“That’s right,” he said, voice rough with grit. “Tell him, pretty. Tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

“Rafe,” you gasped again. “Rafe—please.”

He grinned, dark and full of bite.

“Louder. So he can hear what it sounds like when you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

And you did.

You gave him everything. A cry so loud it tore from your throat, echoing off the walls, wild and broken. The kind of sound no one could mistake for anything else.

The kind of sound anyone standing outside that door would’ve heard.

Rafe’s laugh followed, deep and cocky, dragging straight through your already-raw nerves.

He straightened up behind you, hands slipping down to your hips. Then he pushed you down into the mattress, arching your ass higher. A new angle. A deeper stretch.

And when he drove back in, it hit everything, sending you over the edge.

Your legs shook. Your mouth dropped open. You came with a shudder, the orgasm tearing through you in one long, overwhelming wave.

Rafe fucked you through it, hips pressing into you as your body clenched around him, helpless to the pace. 

He didn’t stop—not really—but the rhythm eventually shifted, slowing just enough to drag every motion out, grinding deeper until your breath hitched. 

His voice came next, thick with control.

“That feel good?”

You moaned, voice wrecked. “Yes.”

He leaned in, chest grazing your back again, his words brushing against your ear.

“Better than him?”

You lifted your head, voice cutting through the noise loud enough for the camera to catch it. The sound that left you was half a moan, half a laugh—mocking and undone all at once.

“So much better.”

Rafe looked straight into the lens, a slow smirk crawling across his lips. No guilt. No apology. Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and who he was doing it to.

He didn’t break eye contact with the camera as he buried himself in you over and over, your body jolting with every deep thrust. His fingers dug in harder, holding you in place, forcing you to take every inch. You tried to breathe, to pause, but he didn't let you—not yet.

Because a real fuck didn’t stop at one orgasm.

And your ex?

He was about to learn that the hard way.

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rafe is leaning against the wall in his overly grand and glorious floor-to-ceiling windowed beach house living room that sits prettily on the shore overlooking the outer banks.

both of his hands are buried in the top of your hair, gathering most of it on back of your head. he’s practically white-knuckling it, using his hands to guide your head over his cock.

your eyes are blown out, pupils swallowing all color around them. your lips are stretched thin around rafe, slick and shiny with spit and precome. your nose is running profusely, spit dripping down your chin and falling in slow drips onto your neck and bare chest. your cheeks are flushed red, eyebrows furrowed upwards.

“got the best fucking mouth, jesus christ.” rafe groans, moving your head slowly over his dick; loving the warm and wet feeling of your mouth.

you whine, trailing your hand down to your clothed clit and rubbing through the fabric. you liked having things in his mouth, sure — helps you focus and you practically do it mindlessly. but when you’re on the ground being face-fucked like a slut by the hottest and richest dude on the island, it gets you off quicker than a virgin having sex for the first time.

you try to move your head faster, wanting to feel rafe down your throat; wanting to get your nose crushed into his pubes, feel his balls pressing on your chin.

but, rafe tugs harshly on your hair, scolding you for ‘misbehaving’ and eventually pulls you off his dick, making make eye contact with you. his cock slaps against your spit-slick lips and you fucking mewl at the feeling.

“so desperate for it, aren’t you? practically begging for me to fuck your throat.” rafe removes one hand from your hair and grips the base of his cock. he drags the tip of it over your lips and ends up slapping it slightly on your mouth, cheeks, even the tip of your nose.

“mhmm,” you whine. “want it, want it so bad.” trying to push your head towards the dick mere millimeters from your mouth and away from the strain of rafe’s fist in your hair.

rafe snaps. shoves his dick back into your mouth and pushes, pushes, pushes all the way to the back of your throat, pelvis flush with your mouth and nose.

you moan wetly, loudly around rafe, grinding your hips down into the hand on your pussy. you’re so close to coming in your soaked panties, your three fingers swirling your clit. you’d normally be embarrassed, insecure of the sheer amount of no self-control around rafe, but at this moment in time, you couldn’t care less.

rafe starts truly fucking your throat — constant wet plap! noises fill the living room, the beach sunset basking you and rafe in orange and yellow and the crashing of the waves on the shore, both of your moans and whines and whimpers and groans sounding blissful after one another.

“fuck, i’m gonna come. so fucking good for me, baby. gonna swallow it f’r me, yeah?” rafe’s unhinged. his hips moving fast, the entire bottom half of his torso is covered in spit, sweat, precome, snot, and tears. you nod, hollow your cheeks, flutter your eyes shut, and do your best to make rafe come before yourself.

rafe fucks one, two, three more times into your throat and releases the most pornographic moan, his voice cracking at the end, turning into the most sinful whine you have ever heard. cum streaks down your throat for what feels like eons; just coming, coming, coming — like it doesn’t have an end.

just that alone has you coming into your dripping panties like a thirteen year old girl just discovering how to masturbate, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back into your head, face full of sin. mouth opening wide, spit escaping out the corners of your mouth, your tongue cradling the underside of rafe’s cock.

rafe humps his hips into you, chasing the feeling of his orgasm; releasing pitiful whines as he does so while you come down from your orgasm.

rafe moves both hands to the sides of your face and strokes his thumbs over your cheeks; wiping away the never ending amount of tear tracks. you pull off of him teasingly, mouth closing around the head of his dick and giving it a few kitten-licks and kitten-kisses before standing up and crashing both of your lips together.

“god. you’re unbelievable,” rafe says after you pull away. “you get better and better every time … you cheatin’ on me? practicing all the time?”

you scoff, roll your eyes, and slapped him on the arm. “sorry that i have a severe need to have things in my mouth twenty-four seven.”

trying your best to avoid rafe’s menacing eyes, you and chanel continued your girl talk, both of you going on your usual rants as rafe stared you down over his glass. truth be told, he didn’t even want to be here. you two had been going at each other’s necks as of recently, both of you arguing and screaming at one another until you couldn’t take another second of being in each other’s presence and someone walked away before things could escalate— hint: it was never you. things had gotten so bad that not even sex was resolving this profound conflict between the two of you, the act alone leaving you to feel empty and used after rafe pretty much took everything you had during one of your prior disagreements.

rafe assumed you two would get through this rough patch soon enough, but it didn’t stop him from hating himself for not knowing how to fix it. there wasn’t anyone who knew him like you did, who understood him like you did.. who loved him like you did. breaking up just wasn’t an option. you couldn’t really hold rafe’s toxic tendencies against him, because you were the same, if not worse. you weren’t going to leave him though, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. if it was any other man, you would’ve been gone in a heartbeat, but that’s just it. rafe wasn’t just any other man, he was rafe.

the same man who has been your only safe haven, the same man who knew how to handle you and check you, was also the same man who knew how to strike a chord and make you enraged. it was a dangerous game that you two were playing, and neither of you were willing to lose. snapping out of his thoughts, rafe watched as chanel left you alone to get another drink, his jaw ticking as you were still acting as if he didn’t exist within the same vicinity. you adjusted the hem of your mini-skirt, your heeled boots reaching the tops of your thighs as you crossed one leg over the other.

swallowing thickly, rafe briefly thought about taking you to the nearest room and teaching you a lesson, the sight of your panties peeking out from your bottoms making his fist tighten at his side. you knew exactly what you were doing. as if you couldn’t look anymore enticing, you sat up a little straighter, flipping your hair over your shoulder, the small action revealing the soft swells of your breasts coming out from the neckline of your top. deciding he wasn’t going to watch this go on for any longer, rafe put his drink down, his feet moving in your direction faster than he could think.

“get up, we’re leaving.” you scoffed, waving off the man in front of you as you looked around at everything else except him. “you could leave, i’m staying.” rafe’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling as your attitude started to get to him. “i’m not gonna repeat myself,” he cursed under his breath, “if you want to make a scene so bad, i’ll give you one.” rafe grabbed your wrist, pulling you up on your feet. you laughed, your fingertips just itching to hit him. remembering that you two were in the middle of a crowd of people, you rested your hand in the nape of his neck before forcing him to lean down so he could hear the next words that came out of your mouth.

“don’t ever yank me up like that again,” you whispered, “i told you i’m staying, so if you want to go home, leave, and get the fuck out of my face.” just as you were going to pull away from him to go find chanel, his hand found the small of your back, his grip on your skin making you shift uncomfortably. “you’re asking to get dragged away right now, you know that?” he glared at you, that crazy look in his eye making a shiver run down your spine. forcing your way out of his hold, you shoved him to the best of your ability before striding off, a couple of nearby partygoers murmuring amongst themselves while rafe stood there alone once again.

you didn’t realize how suffocated you had felt until you made your way to the open kitchen, your heart beating fast in your chest until chanel came into your view. she was talking to a guy that easily looked like her type, both of them engaging in conversation about something while you poured yourself a shot. downing the liquor in the little glass, you took a deep breath as you settled in next to chanel at the kitchen island. your phone started going off with text messages from rafe, your eyes rolling to the back of your head in annoyance. apart of you wished he would just leave already.

“one of the girls are asking me to meet them outside real quick, i’ll be right back—” chanel lowered her voice, “don’t let him go anywhere..” she whispered, motioning towards the guy she was talking to. you didn’t get to protest before she was off, leaving you and her mystery man by yourselves. sighing, you blinked up at him as he cleared his throat awkwardly. you two nodded in greeting, an uncomfortable silence falling over the two of you while you waited for your best friend to make her return. you scrolled on your phone, swiping away rafe’s messages as they came in, a series of ‘where the fuck did you run off to?’, and ‘i’m not leaving until you’re in the truck.’ texts illuminating your screen.

“hey, i’m really sorry to do this but i have to go, is there any way you could leave chanel’s number in my phone?” you bit your cheek, taking his phone in your hand before saving chanel as a contact. “here you go—” when you looked up, the guy had just been punched in the face, his unconscious body falling to the floor with a heavy thud. you gasped, your eyes shooting wide as none other than rafe stood over his form, his knuckles already bloody from the impact of his fist meeting the guy’s teeth. “what’s your problem?!” you screamed at him, attempting to push him away but he didn’t budge.

“did i interrupt something?” he laughed, snatching the phone out of your hands and throwing it in the opposite direction. “we’re giving out our numbers now? that’s what the fuck we’re doing?” everyone was staring at the two of you now as rafe cornered you against the counter. “bro, don’t get too close to her like that.” a complete stranger stepped in, his hand finding rafe’s shoulder. and just like that, this situation just got so much more worse. rafe glanced back at you, his palms leaving the countertop before he swung at the guy attempting to come to your defense.

“rafe!” you shrieked, your body frozen in shock as he repeatedly punched the second guy of the night in the face. people were already on the phone with the cops when you slapped him, your nails digging into his skin as you kept trying to make him snap out of his blinding rage. “let’s just go home,” you kneeled down, meeting him at eye level, “we could leave, okay?!” with one final bone crushing punch, you winced when rafe wasted no time in dragging you through the sea of people that managed to gather around to see what all the commotion was about.

“this is all your fucking fault,” he said through gritted teeth, “you did this.” rafe got you two outside, making sure to get you in his truck before speeding away down the winding streets of figure eight. everything was a blur up until this point. rafe’s knuckles were split open, the wounds making themselves apparent with the way he had a death grip on the steering wheel. you let your eyes travel up his arms until they reached his face. he looked so out of it, you wondered if he even remembered everything that took place in the last thirty minutes.

“something is seriously wrong with you.” your words hung heavy in the air, “i was giving that guy chanel’s number, not mine.” rafe scoffed, his lips pulling into a grin. “yeah, sure you did. chanel wasn’t even there.” you held your head in your hands, a bitter laugh escaping your mouth as your eyes began pricking with tears. “because she went outside!” you shouted out in frustration, “they were talking and he had to leave, so he asked if i could put her number in his phone, that’s the truth!” rafe shook his head, still unconvinced. “nah, don’t try to cover your ass, now. when we get home, pack all your shit and get out. i mean it this time.”

you unlocked your phone, thrusting it at him so he could check it. “go through it, there’s nothing.” taking the device, you gasped when he threw it out of the window without sparing you a single glance. “are you fucking serious?!” you were swatting at him now, a yelp echoing throughout the truck once he swerved and it knocked you back into your seat. you watched as rafe picked up speed, an inkling of fear now settling into the pit of your stomach as he neared the gates of tanneyhill’s driveway. “slow down, rafe.” you clutched your seatbelt when he didn’t listen, the truck only getting closer to the residential fence.

“rafe!” he slammed down on the brakes right before you two could collide into the metal bars, his head shooting in your direction as he seemingly snapped out of whatever trance he was in. you were already crying, your mascara running down your cheeks as you struggled to take a full breath. rafe grabbed you, his heart beating out of his chest as he inspected you to make sure you were okay. “i’m sorry,” he cupped your face, “i’m so sorry, i don’t know what came over me.” feeling a mix of anger and terror, you pushed him away with a scream. “i hate you!” rafe tried to stop you from getting off the truck but you were already gone.

chucking off your heels, you looked back and felt your heart drop when rafe started running after you, your feet moving faster than ever before as you raced to get inside. “get away from me!” you threw a shoe in hopes it would slow him down, but he wasn’t fazed. “i don’t know why i did that, baby! i would never hurt you, you know this!” you whimpered, a throbbing pain now beating in the base of your skull. this was all just too much. you knew the front door was locked but it didn’t stop you from messing with the door knob, any and all plans you had of running away died the second you felt the familiar heat of rafe’s body on your backside.

he gripped the roots of your hair, turning you around in his hold as he looked at you with a manic grin. “all of this would’ve never happened if you just stayed home like i told you to,” he spoke dangerously low, “but no, we have to do things your way, right? i have to choose between you or my sanity.” you trembled underneath his gaze, a choked sob ripping from your throat when he leaned down and kissed the corner of your lips. “you make me so mad sometimes, what am i gonna do with you?” rafe squeezed your cheeks together, his eyes running down your distressed features.

“please, just let me grab my things. i can’t do this anymore.” rafe’s eyebrows knitted in confusion upon hearing your words. “you can’t do this anymore? what about me? i put up with your shit all the time, and i’ve never tried to leave you. i’ve never given my phone number out to another girl.” you sighed, your eyes screwing shut as police sirens started ringing in the distance. “for the last time, rafe, i was giving that guy chanel’s phone number. if you wouldn’t have thrown my phone out on the road and actually pulled over to look through it then you would know that.”

rafe felt like shit. now that he was this close to you and able to read the emotions on your face, he knew you weren’t lying. saying sorry wouldn’t even be enough after doing all of this. you two stared at each other, the flickering of red and blue lights reflecting off of your skin. “you know where my bail money is.” was all he said before kissing you once more and making his way over to where three police cars stood. you watched as rafe walked with his hands behind his head as if this was a regular occurrence for him, the officers wasting no time in getting him in handcuffs.

shoupe shook his head, having arrested rafe a bunch of times already. “i’d be happy if you were just to get a restraining order against him. both of you are trouble when you’re together.” he went up to the porch, offering you a hand so you could walk down the steps of the deck. “we’re taking him in for two counts of assault, i already have about six people making witness reports down at the station.” you nodded, swallowing thickly as the car that had rafe in the backseat sped off. “it was all a misunderstanding, really.” you tried to reason with the officer in front of you but he wasn’t having it.

“rafe has a problem, y/n. this isn’t the first time, and as long as you stay, it won’t be the last. think wisely before you come to the station to post his bail.” you blinked away your tears, and walked alongside shoupe to the end of the driveway. once everything was said and done, and you were by yourself, you parked rafe’s truck and used his keys to get inside. taking a seat on the couch, you stared at the framed photo of you two on the coffee table, your brain working a million miles a minute while you thought about all the good times you. had together in the beginning.

as much as rafe was excessive and crazy, you were too. you knew all the blame couldn’t just be on him. both of you drove each other to the next level and sometimes it’d go too far, like tonight for example. he wasn’t the only one getting hauled away in a cop car when your arguments turned into something much more serious. as defeated as you felt right now, you knew rafe would never leave you sitting in a cell. it wasn’t until the sun was peeking out of the clouds when you found yourself getting a disappointed look from shoupe, a pen in your hand as you signed off on rafe’s discharge papers.

that’s the real problem. not the drinking, not the nights that blur into mornings, not the fights he starts just to feel something. it’s you.

the way you exist in his head like a cracked neon sign, buzzing and flickering, impossible to ignore. the way he catches himself tracing old outlines of you in places you’ve never been. at the bottom of a glass, in the corner of a crowded room, in the silence between songs.

and it’s worse now, because you’re not just gone. you’re with someone else. marcus.

rafe hates even thinking that fucking name. it sounds clean, too clean, like a boy who holds open doors and calls his mother every sunday.

marcus is the type of guy who probably does the right thing without thinking about it, who doesn’t have to fight against the urge to ruin everything he touches.

and that’s what makes it unbearable; you didn’t run from rafe into something opposite—you didn’t find safety in a poet, or softness in someone fragile, or quiet in someone harmless. you ran into someone who is almost him.

marcus looks like the man rafe pretends to be. broad shouldered, easy smile, that casual confidence that doesn’t reek of desperation. people like him. people trust him. he’s everything rafe could have been if he hadn’t cracked himself open a long time ago and let all the good seep out.

it’s almost insulting. like you went shopping for a new version of him, the kind that comes polished and functional, one that won’t cut your hands open when you try to hold on

rafe tries to picture how you are with him. does your laugh sound different now? softer, easier, without that sharp little edge you always had around rafe, like you were waiting for the floor to drop? do you smile more, or less?

does marcus touch you in public, pull you in close without shame, without fear of what people will say? does he know you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry? does he know you talk in your sleep when you’re too tired?

he probably does. he probably knows everything now.

rafe remembers the first time he saw you with marcus. it wasn’t even supposed to be a big deal—just another night, another crowded place, another drink in his hand.

but then you were there, across the room, your hand on his arm. and marcus, smiling down at you like he’d won something he didn’t even know was a prize.

rafe felt it like a punch, but he didn’t flinch. he never flinches in public. he laughed too loud at something topper said, threw back another shot, pretended it didn’t matter.

but later, when he was alone, he broke a mirror with his fist.

he tells himself it’s not jealousy. he tells himself it’s ‘just pride’, ‘just ego’, just the fact that marcus is walking around with something that used to be his. but deep down he knows that’s a lie.

it’s not about possession. it’s about you.

you were supposed to be the one who stayed. the one who saw through the wreckage, who believed there was something worth saving underneath. you were supposed to be the one who could hold his hand when it shook, who could press your palm against the violence in him and make it quiet.

and for a while, you were.

he remembers nights when the two of you existed like the world had finally stopped spinning. your head on his chest, your fingers in his hair, his heart beating too fast but steadying under your touch.

he remembers you whispering things like “you don’t have to be anything but with me” he remembers thinking that maybe, just maybe, you meant it

but then you left.

not dramatically, not with screaming or doors slamming. not by cheating.

you left like someone quietly closing a window at night, careful not to wake their parents. you left with soft words, with apologies, with one last kiss that wasn’t really a kiss at all.

and now you’re with marcus. and rafe is still here. still drinking. still spinning in circles like a dog chasing its own tail.

he thinks about calling you sometimes. not even to say anything—just to hear your voice. he imagines what you’d sound like if you picked up. would you be surprised? annoyed? would you sigh his name like a curse, like a prayer? would you hang up before he could speak?

sometimes he even dials the number. he knows it by now, he could never forget it. thumb hovering over the call button, pulse pounding in his throat. but he never presses it.

instead he sits in places like this—too loud, too crowded, too dark—and lets the thought of you eat him alive.

because the truth is, he doesn’t want you happy with marcus. he doesn’t want you safe, or steady, or clean. he wants you messy, tangled up in him, drowning in the same poison he drinks every night.

he wants you ruined. like him.

and while rafe was drunk off his ass in the club, drowning himself in neon and noise, you were somewhere quieter.

marcus’ place.

his apartment isn’t much—just a few blocks off the college campus, two bedrooms, a balcony that overlooks a parking lot instead of an ocean—but it’s enough. more than enough, because it feels safe in a way you haven’t known in years. the floors don’t creak under the weight of tension, the air doesn’t feel like it might snap in half at any moment. there are books stacked on the coffee table, dishes in the sink, a plant you’re not sure he remembers to water.

it feels lived in. steady

and marcus himself—he’s steady too. steady in the way he rests a hand on the small of your back when you pass by, steady in the way he laughs at himself, steady in the way he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

he’s broad shouldered, handsome, sharp around the edges in that all american way. when people look at him, they see reliability, potential, a future that doesn’t collapse in on itself.

he’s rafe, but not rafe.

and that’s the truth you don’t like to admit: the only reason you even noticed marcus in the first place was because he reminded you of him.

the resemblance is shallow at first;tall, strong, a presence that fills up a room before he even speaks. the kind of boy people turn their heads after.

the kind of boy you’ve always been drawn to, even when you swore you wouldn’t be. but it wasn’t just the surface.

it was the way he carried himself, that little bit of recklessness in the way he leaned against a wall, the way he let his gaze linger like he wasn’t afraid of being caught

but marcus’s recklessness doesn’t bleed. it doesn’t bite. it doesn’t come home with bruised knuckles and false promises

marcus is everything you wanted rafe to be.

he’s the softened version, the proof that it was possible all along—someone could look like that, talk like that, be like that, and still…be gentle.

still be kind. still remember to text you back, still keep his promises, still pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

and maybe that’s why you let yourself fall into it. not because you wanted marcus—at least, not at first—but because you wanted the version of rafe that never existed.

you wanted to rewrite the story, to see what it would’ve been like if the boy with the storm in his chest had ever chosen calm instead of chaos.

you wanted to prove to yourself that it wasn’t foolish to believe. marcus made it easy. he didn’t ask about rafe, didn’t dig into the scars you carried like some kind of archaeological dig.

he just opened the door, handed you a drink, smiled at you like you were worth everything. he didn’t try to fix you. he just let you be.

sometimes, when you lie beside him in morning, you try to imagine that it’s enough. you trace the lines of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, the curve of his smile, and you tell yourself this is what you always wanted. safe. steady. simple.

but sometimes, when the room is too quiet, when marcus is asleep beside you, you catch yourself staring at the ceiling and feeling hollow.

because the truth is that marcus doesn’t set you on fire. he doesn’t drag the air out of your lungs with a single look. he doesn’t make you want to scream and stay and run all at once.

marcus is warm. rafe was wildfire. and you miss the burn more than you should.

but still—you stay. because you remember what it felt like to bleed yourself dry trying to hold onto someone who never held on back

you remember the exhaustion, the humiliation, the breaking. you remember the way rafe made you feel like you were both everything and nothing at the same time.

so you tell yourself marcus is what you need. even if he’s not what you ache for.

now back to rafe…rafe’s not really serving nonchalant playboy kook king tonight. not the version of himself he parades when he wants control, when he wants the room to bend toward him like it always does.

that armor isn’t here;no smirk, no show of easy confidence, no crown tilted careless on his head.

tonight he’s just the sensitive, bitter, jealous ex that’s hurting.

he’s hunched in the booth like the air’s been sucked out of him, glass in hand but no taste left on his tongue. the neon paints him in harsh colors, but he doesn’t wear them well. his eyes are bloodshot, mouth set in that hard line that’s less anger than it is ache

every laugh he hears from across the room grates against him, every pair of bodies pressed together makes his jaw clench. but none of it is really about the people here. it’s about you.

you, at marcus’.

rafe knows it without having to see it. he can picture it too clearly—your shoes kicked off by the door, your legs tucked under you on his couch, your head tipped back in a laugh that comes easier now. marcus beside you, solid, steady, broad shouldered and golden in all the ways rafe never could be.

marcus, who’s like him but not him.

marcus, who’s the softer version, the safer one, the one you only like because he is what you wanted rafe to be.

rafe can’t decide if that thought makes him want to smash the glass in his hand or cry into it. mayb both.

he tips his head back against the wall, lets his eyes slip shut for a second, and feels the burn of liquor and jealousy curl through him like smoke. he hates marcus—hates the way he walks through life without cracking the floor beneath him, hates the way people smile when they say his name, hates that you smile when you say his name

but most of all, he hates himself. because he knows if he’d been better—steadier, softer, anything other than what he is—you never would’ve gone looking for marcus in the first place.

you wouldn’t have needed him.

and that’s the part that stings most, the part that makes his chest feel like it’s splitting open. not that you left. but that you replaced him with the kind of man he could never quite manage to be.

his phone is on the table, face down like it’s mocking him.

he’s been staring at it for the past ten minutes, maybe longer, his hand hovering close like it might bite him if he reaches for it.

it’s stupid, really. he’s rafe cameron. he’s supposed to be above this—supposed to have people waiting on his call, not the other way around

but all that posturing, all that nonchalant playboy king shit, feels paper thin tonight.

because the only name he wants to press is yours.

he can picture it too clearly, the way it’s still saved in his contacts. he never deleted it, even on nights when he told himself he would. he’s scrolled past it a hundred times, heart punching against his ribs every time, like muscle memory won’t let him forget.

what would happen if he called?

he runs through it in his head like a rehearsal, even though he knows reality never plays out the way he imagines. maybe you wouldn’t pick up. maybe it would ring and ring until voicemail caught it, and he’d hear that clipped little tone followed by your voice—the one you recorded months ago, back when you were still his. back when you still answered.

he could live on that alone. just your voice,even if it’s just a voicemail, would be enough to carry him through the night.

but what if you did answer? that’s the thought that keeps him frozen.

because if you answered, then what?

what the fuck would he even say? “hey, it’s me, i’m drunk and miserable and i can’t stop picturing you in someone else’s bed?”

yeah, that’ll go over real well

he knows he shouldn’t. he knows it down to his bones. you’ve moved on, you’ve made it clear, you’re with marcus now. calling you would only make him look pathetic—bitter, jealous, the ex who can’t let go.

but isn’t that exactly what he is?

he drags a hand over his face, palms rough against his skin, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. the logic is simple: don’t call. move on. let it go.

but nothing about you has ever been simple.

he thinks about how your voice used to sound when you said his name, how it could land like a soft plea or a sharp curse depending on the day.

he thinks about how you’d press your thumb into the space between his brows when he was tense, telling him to stop frowning, stop burning himself alive from the inside out

marcus probably gets that now.

that thought alone nearly kills him.

his fingers twitch toward the phone, then retreat. he picks up his glass instead, drains what’s left, grimaces at the taste, sets it back down with too much force. the bartender glances over, but rafe ignores it.

“don’t call her”

he repeats it like a mantra, like if he says it enough he’ll start to believe it.

don’t call her.

don’t.

but then his mind betrays him, spins out a fantasy: you answering soft, sleepy, your voice catching in that familiar way. “rafe?” like you can’t quite believe it’s him, like a part of you was waiting for this all along.

he swallows hard. his chest aches like he’s been running, like he’s chasing something he’ll never catch.

what would you say to him? would you hang up immediately, or would you stay on the line long enough to hear him out?

would you laugh, cruel and disbelieving, or would you go quiet, that heavy silence that always meant you were listening, even when you wanted to hate him?

he wants to believe you’d listen. that somewhere inside, you’d want to hear him too

but what if marcus is there? what if his name lights up your screen in the middle of your safe little night, and marcus leans over, asks who it is, and you lie? or worse—you tell the truth.

he imagines marcus’s arm around you, his voice in the background, his body curled against yours while rafe’s voice hears through the phone. it makes him sick. he wants to smash the thought out of his skull, but it just digs deeper.

maybe that’s why he wants to call. not just to hear your voice, but to remind you. to plant himself back in your head, even for a second. to remind you that no matter how good marcus is, no matter how much softer or steadier or safer he is, rafe was first. rafe is the reason you still know what it feels like to burn. to be alive

his thumb is already brushing over the screen, flipping the phone over, lighting it up. your name glows at him like it knows the power it holds.

“just one call. one. what’s the worst that could happen?”

he knows the answer to that too.

the worst that could happen is you don’t pick up, and he’s left with nothing but static and silence and the hollow in his chest that even whiskey can’t fill.

the worst that could happen is you do pick up, and you remind him in real time that you’re gone, that you’ve chosen someone else, that marcus is the man rafe couldn’t be.

he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, breathing through his nose, eyes locked on the glow of your name.

don’t call her.

don’t. but god, he wants to.

his thumb hovers over your name, and it’s like the glow of it pulls him backward instead of forward.

that’s the thing about being drunk—it makes time elastic. stretches it, snaps it, blurs the edges until past and present bleed together.

suddenly he’s not in the club anymore. he’s in your car, driving it, window down, music too loud, your voice singing along even louder. your hand drumming on the board. your laugh spilling into the night air like it belonged to him.

“focus, rafe. you’re gonna miss the turn”

you used to say it all the time, grinning, teasing, the kind of patience no one else had for him

now the glass is sweating in his hand, and the steering wheel is gone, and so are you.

he blinks, shakes his head, but the memory doesn’t let go. it shifts, morphs.

your dorm room this time. the little string lights you hung, the thrift store blanket thrown across the bed, the smell of whatever cheap candle you insisted made the room feel like home. you’re curled up on his chest, eyes half shut, whispering something he can’t quite catch now.

maybe “i love you.” maybe “don’t fuck this up.” probably both.

rafe drags a hand over his face, because god, he did fuck it up.

another drink would drown it, but the glass is empty. so he just sits with it, lets the ache gnaw at him.

and then another flash—sharper this time. the last fight.

you standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight over your chest. your eyes glassy but steady. his voice too loud, words sharp enough to cut.

he can’t remember exactly what he said, only that it was cruel. it always was, in the end.

“you don’t even try, rafe. i can’t keep doing this”

he remembers your voice perfectly. remembers the way it cracked, not from weakness, but from weight. from exhaustion

and he remembers how he didn’t stop you when you turned and walked out.

he told himself you’d come back. you always came back. except you didn’t.

now he’s here, drunk and bitter, thumb hovering over your name like it’s a detonator.

his mind keeps skipping like a scratched record. flashes of you pressed against him in a dark hallway, your lipstick smudged against his mouth. flashes of your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, grounding him when he couldn’t breathe.

flashes of you in the morning, barefaced, sleepy eyed, still beautiful enough to knock him sideways.

and then flashes of you with marcus. the ones he made up, because he doesn’t have to see them to know. your head on marcus’s chest the way it used to be on his. marcus’s arm heavy over your waist. marcus kissing your hair, your temple, your smile. marcus steady where rafe was shaking.

the images layer on top of each other until he feels sick. the world tilts, the neon blurs. he presses the heel of his hand into his eye until colors explode behind the lid, but it doesn’t block you out.

he can still hear your voice “you could be better, rafe. if you wanted to, you could”

you meant it when you said it. he knows you did, but he didn’t believe you.

now he’s stuck here, drowned in whiskey and regret, staring at your name like it might save him.

one call. just one.

he imagines your hello. imagines your silence. imagines your anger. imagines you softening, just a little, because it’s him. because it’s always been him.

and then the reel snaps again—the night you left. your hand slipping out of his, slow and deliberate. your eyes not even watery this time, just tired. tired in a way that told him this wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a game, wasn’t another one of your fights. this was final.

“goodbye, rafe.”

he can’t remember if he said anything back. maybe he didn’t. maybe he just let the door close and sat there in the wreckage.

here he is now, wreckage still. phone in hand. thumb trembling. heart hammering so hard he swears the whole room can hear it.

don’t call her. don’t.

but drunk minds don’t listen to reason. they only listen to longing. and his longing is screaming your name.

don’t call her.

the voice in his head is sharp, clipped, cold. the voice that sounds like topper, like ward, like reason. “don’t do it. you’ll look pathetic. you’ll sound pathetic. she doesn’t want to hear from you. she’s with him now. she chose him”

he nods, almost agrees but….

but then another voice, softer, meaner because it’s his own “but what if she does want to hear from you? what if she’s lying there in his bed wishing it was you instead? what if she still thinks about you the way you think about her?”

he shakes his head, runs a hand down his face, tries to ground himself in the sweat slick wood of the table. it doesn’t work.

“don’t call her. you’ll ruin whatever scraps of dignity you have left”

“call her. she’s yours. she’s always been yours. marcus is just a placeholder”

his chest aches. his throat tightens. he stares at your name like it’s bait and he’s the dumb animal too hungry to resist.

“don’t call her. you’ll hear his voice in the background. you’ll hear her hesitate. you’ll hear her lie to him while she’s on the line with you. do you really want that?”

but then the ache claws up his throat, the desperate, drunken logic that always wins in the end: “but what if she picks up and it’s just her? what if she says your name soft? what if she misses you too? what if she’s waiting?”

he laughs, because he knows how insane it sounds. waiting? you’re not waiting for him. you’re not checking your phone at midnight hoping his name lights up your screen. you’re not stuck in a booth with an empty glass and too much poison in your blood.

you’re with marcus. steady, golden marcus. the man rafe could’ve been if he hadn’t set himself on fire years ago and kept walking into the flames.

he grits his teeth “don’t call her. she’s safe now. don’t drag her back into your mess”

but the thought cuts deeper than anything else—safe. as if that’s all you wanted.

as if safe could ever be enough for you, for the girl who once looked him in the eyes after he’d broken something precious and said “i don’t care if it kills me, i just want you”

you weren’t built for safe.

he seizes on that, twists it. if you weren’t built for safe, then you weren’t built for marcus. which means you’re still his. right?

right.

but the other voice hisses back “if she was still yours, she’d be here. not there. not with him”

his pulse hammers, his thumb trembling against the glass.

he thinks about what he’d even say, if you answered.

“hey. i miss you” too soft. pathetic.

“he’s not better than me” too bitter, too obvious.

“you’ll never love him the way you loved me” too desperate.

“please come back” too much.

the words tangle in his throat before they’re even spoken. he doesn’t know which version of himself would slip out—the apology, the accusation, the plea. probably all of them at once, a drunken mess spilling through the receiver.

he imagines you listening, breathing quietly, not saying anything until he runs out of words. he imagines you hanging up without a goodbye. he imagines you crying. he imagines you laughing

he imagines every possible ending, and none of them save him.

‘don’t call her. you’ll just hurt more’

but the longing howls back: “but what if, just once, she answers and doesn’t hang up? what if she remembers? what if she lets you in?”

he presses his fist against his mouth, eyes burning, head heavy.

he’s not the fuckboy tonight. not untouchable, not in control. he’s just a boy staring at a name on a screen, arguing with the voices in his head

and the voices are winning.

“fuck it, just one more time” his thumb drops before he can stop it. like muscle memory, like instinct, like falling.

the line lights up, your name glowing in his hand, and suddenly he feels sick. not the drunk kind of sick, not the whiskey burn in his gut—worse. the kind of sick that comes from wanting something you’re not supposed to have.

it rings. each chime feels like a nail being driven deeper into his chest.

he pictures you at marcus’, phone buzzing on the nightstand while you laugh at something stupid he said. you probably won’t even look at it. maybe marcus will glance at the screen, see rafe’s name, and smirk like he’s already won.

the ringing keeps going.

rafe drags a hand over his face, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. he should hang up. he should end it before it goes to voicemail, before he humiliates himself even more.

but he doesn’t, he lets it ring, hoping against hope, hating himself with every second that ticks by.

and then—voicemail.

your voice. not live, not real, just the old recording. still, it hits him like a blade to the ribs.

he doesn’t leave a message. he hangs up. his hands are shaking now, his chest burning. it wasn’t enough. not even close.

before he can think, he’s pressing the button again.

ring. ring. ring.

he leans forward, elbows braced on the table, phone pressed tight in his grip like maybe if he holds hard enough, you’ll feel it on the other end.

but it goes to voicemail again.

he exhales, rough and shaky, almost laughs. bitter, broken.

two calls. pathetic.

but it’s not enough so he hits it again.

third time.

ring. ring.

his heart is pounding in his throat, head spinning, every nerve in his body strung tight. he tells himself if you don’t answer this time, he’ll stop. he’ll take the loss. he’ll drink until the night swallows him whole and he forgets your name for at least a few hours.

ring.

ring.

the silence between chimes is torture. he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, hear the way his breath shudders out of him.

and then—“…rafe?” your voice. small, cautious, half asleep maybe.

everything in him stutters.

fuck. you actually picked up.

his whole body jerks like someone’s just poured ice water down his spine.

for a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. he has to be. there’s no way that’s your voice, real and alive and on the other end of the line.

it can’t be, because he’s imagined it too many times before—late nights, drunk and desperate, whispering your name into a dead line. it always ends the same: silence.

but now…now it’s you. soft. uncertain. and god, so painfully real.

his brain blanks. every thought he rehearsed, every line he spun in his head, every bitter, jealous, broken thing he wanted to spit—it all scatters like birds.

you answered.

fuck. you actually answered.

his breath catches. he presses a hand to his mouth, like he can hold it all in, keep from breaking apart completely. his chest feels like it might cave in, like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

this isn’t how it was supposed to go. you weren’t supposed to pick up.

you were supposed to let it ring, let him hit voicemail again, let him sit in the safety of his own self pity. he could’ve lived with that. he could’ve told himself it was fate, that you didn’t want him, that it was done.

but now? now you’re here. on the line. waiting.

he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t spoken yet. he’s stuck in the shock, drowning in it, his mind spiraling with too many voices at once.

“say something. don’t say anything, hang up, salvage your pride.

but it’s her, it’s really her…don’t ruin it, don’t beg, don’t let her hear how wrecked you are—just fucking speak before she hangs up”

and then your voice again, softer this time. tentative“…hello?”

that one word guts him.

you sound cautious, like you don’t know which version of him you’re about to get. like you’re bracing yourself—for anger, for tears, for silence. all three

rafe closes his eyes, swallows hard, feels the liquor rise sharp in his throat. he knows he should say something simple. something sane.

but all he can think is: you picked up.

rafe swallows, mouth dry, tongue clumsy. he opens his mouth, closes it, tries again

“hi—” his voice cracks. he clears his throat, drags a hand down his face. “hey. uh. hey.”

smooth. real smooth.

he squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like maybe he can drag the right words out of himself.

“rafe?” you ask again, softer this time, and fuck—he could fall apart just hearing you say his name. like it still belongs in your mouth, like it still means something

“yeah, it’s me.” his laugh is sharp, bitter, self deprecating. “who else would be calling you this late, right?”

silence. the kind that chews at his nerves, makes him feel like he’s already lost

you sigh, almost hesitant “what’s wrong?”

two little words, and suddenly it’s like the floor gives out under him. because you’re not angry. you’re not cold. you sound… worried. and that hurts more than anything else

he shakes his head, though you can’t see it. his chest is tight, words clawing at his throat, spilling before he can stop them.

“i just—fuck, i don’t even know why i called,” he mutters, though that’s a lie. he knows exactly why. “i was just sitting here thinking about you and… i couldn’t—i couldn’t not.”

he laughs again, but it’s hollow. “stupid, huh? marcus probably hates me already and now i’m giving him more reasons.”

he hears you shift on the other end, maybe sitting up, maybe sneaking out of bed so marcus won’t overhear. the thought sends a twist of satisfaction through his gut, ugly and selfish

“rafe…” your voice is careful, like you’re handling glass.

he cuts you off before you can say more. he can’t bear it—the pity, the rejection

“look, i’m sorry, okay? i’m sorry for—fuck, for everything. for the way i treated you, for the way i fucked it all up. i know i don’t deserve to call you. i know i don’t deserve you.”

his throat burns. his hand tightens on the phone until his knuckles ache “but god, i can’t stand thinking about him. about you with him. marcus. he’s not—he’s not me.”

the words tumble out faster, messier, like a dam breaking

“he’s good, i get it. he’s nice, he’s steady, he’s probably everything i should’ve been. but he’s not me. he can’t be me. and maybe you think that’s a good thing, maybe you think you needed someone safer, cleaner, but—”

his breath catches, jagged, “but he doesn’t know you like i do. he doesn’t know how you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh or cry. he doesn’t know how you always have to sleep on the left side. he doesn’t know the way you look when you’re angry—like you’re ready to burn the world down but you’d still let me hold the match.”

he presses his fist to his mouth, eyes burning “he doesn’t know you, not really. not the way i do.”

the silence on your end stretches. he can hear faint static, maybe your breath, maybe nothing at all. it gnaws at him, makes him reckless

“you could do better, you know.” his voice breaks “you could do better than him. better than me, even. but fuck, i wish—” he cuts himself off, drags a hand through his hair “i wish better still meant me.”

his laugh is choked, humorless “i sound pathetic, don’t i? drunk and pathetic. classic rafe.”

you finally breathe out his name, soft “rafe…”

and it’s enough to undo him

“i just—i miss you,” he admits, the words torn out of him. “i miss you so much it hurts every time i see you with him. and i know i shouldn’t say that, i know i shouldn’t be calling you, i know i lost that right—but i can’t stop thinking maybe… maybe you miss me too. even just a little.”

his voice cracks again. “do you?”

the question hangs there, fragile.

he imagines you biting your lip, eyes closed, torn between telling the truth and saying what’s safe. he imagines marcus asleep in the next room, oblivious.

he imagines you lying in bed, phone pressed to your ear, his name lighting up your screen in the dark.

his heart pounds. his breath shudders

“just… tell me i’m wrong,” he whispers. “tell me you don’t think about me. tell me you don’t wish it was me sometimes. i’ll hang up. i’ll stop.”

but he doesn’t really believe he will. because deep down, he knows—this isn’t the last time. it never is.

you sit there with the phone pressed to your ear, staring at the ceiling in the dark, marcus’ slow, even breaths behind you like a reminder you don’t want.

rafe’s voice bleeds through the line, ragged and unsteady, cracking open old places you’ve tried so hard to stitch shut.

you hate how it still pulls at you.

how even now, after everything he did—after all the bruises he left on your heart, after the apologies that came too late, after the nights he vanished and the mornings he came back smelling like smoke and whiskey—you still feel that little ache when he says he misses you

you don’t want to miss him. but god, sometimes you do.

you close your eyes, press your free hand against your forehead like you can hold the thoughts in place. marcus is steady. marcus is safe. marcus makes you laugh without making you cry first. you like him because he’s what you wanted rafe to be.

but rafe’s voice still slips under your skin like nothing else can “…do you?” he asks, the words raw, almost broken. “do you miss me?”

you bite your lip hard enough to sting. the honest answer sits heavy on your tongue, but you know if you let it out—even in a whisper—it’ll unravel you both

“rafe,” you say softly, careful. “you need to go home. get some sleep.”

there’s a pause. you can hear his breathing, uneven, shaky “that’s not an answer,” he mutters, bitter.

you squeeze your eyes shut “it’s the only one i can give you.”

he exhales, rough, like it hurts.

your throat feels tight. you wish you could be cruel, cold, something that would make him hang up and never call again. but you can’t. you’ve never been able to with him

“look,” you murmur, keeping your voice low, glancing back at marcus just to be sure he’s still asleep, “i’m not going to tell anyone about this. not marcus, not anybody. it’s just between us, okay?”

the line is quiet for a second, and you picture him with his head in his hands, fighting whatever storm is tearing through him

“why?” he asks finally, voice slurred but sharp underneath. “why wouldn’t you tell him? if he’s so perfect, if he’s so much better than me, shouldn’t you run straight to him with this? show him what a mess i still am?”

your chest twists. “because i’m not trying to hurt you,” you whisper. “and i don’t want to hurt him, either.”

you can hear him breathing again, softer now, like maybe the fight’s draining out of him.

“go home, rafe,” you say again, steady this time. “please. just… go home and sleep.”

you don’t add for me, but it hangs there anyway, unspoken, heavy in the dark

“go home, rafe.”

your voice is soft, pleading, the kind that’s meant to soothe. it only makes something in him snap

“stop saying that,” he mutters, low and jagged, like broken glass. “stop acting like you get to send me away. like you don’t still think about me when he’s got his arm around you. like you’re not lying there wishing it was me.”

you exhale, steady but shaky underneath. “rafe…”

he barrels over you, words tumbling out too fast, too heavy, each one scraping his throat raw

“you don’t get it. i can’t stand it. i see you with him and it’s like—like someone’s got their hands around my throat. he looks at you like you’re the whole fucking world, but he doesn’t know you. he doesn’t know the nights you used to cry into my chest, doesn’t know the way you get quiet when you’re scared, doesn’t know how you hate thunderstorms but you’ll sit through every one if i hold your hand.”

his breath hitches. his knuckles are white where he grips the phone “he doesn’t get to have that. he doesn’t get to have you.”

you close your eyes, lean your head back against the wall. “rafe, you lost the right to say that. you lost it a long time ago”

the words lance through him, sharp and true. he flinches, but the whiskey in his blood makes him reckless, makes him push harder even when it hurts

“i know,” he bites out. “i know i ruined it. i know i broke you, and i hate myself for it every fucking day. but you’re still mine. you’ll always be mine, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise. i can feel it. i can hear it in your voice right now.”

his voice drops, hoarse, dangerous. “tell me you don’t still think about me. tell me you don’t still want me. lie to me. i dare you”

you press your hand against your mouth, because the truth is riiight there on the tip of your tongue, and it terrifies you

“rafe,” you whisper, shaking your head. “you can’t do this to me. you can’t call me like this in the middle of the night and say things like that.”

“why not?” his laugh is bitter, broken. “because marcus wouldn’t like it? because he’d finally see that i’ll always be the shadow in your bed, no matter how hard you try to scrub me out? he’s a placeholder, that’s all he is. he’s not me. he’ll never be me.”

your chest aches, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “stop. please.”

but he doesn’t. he can’t.

“you love him?” rafe asks suddenly, sharp and slurred all at once. “look me in the eye—no, fuck, say it into this phone and mean it. tell me you love him.”

silence. just the thud of your pulse in your ears.

rafe’s breath catches on the other end, jagged, uneven

“you can’t, can you?” he whispers. “because part of you still loves me. no matter how much you hate it. no matter how much you wish you didn’t.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. and that silence is enough to keep him talking, spilling everything he shouldn’t

“god, i’m such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice breaking. “but at least i’m your mess. i’d rather be broken with you than whole without you. marcus can have your smile, your hand, the polite little pieces of you you’re willing to give him—but he’ll never touch the parts of you that were mine. he can’t. they’re locked up in me. i’ve got the key, and i’m never giving it up.”

he drags a shaking breath, chest heaving. “i don’t care if it ruins me. i’d rather burn down everything than watch him keep you warm.”

your heart is in your throat. you want to scream at him, to tell him he’s wrong, that you’ve moved on, that he doesn’t get to claim you anymore. but the words stick, because part of you still aches for him.

“rafe,” you say finally, your voice breaking, “please. just… stop. go home. sleep this off. tomorrow you’ll regret it, and i can’t—i can’t survive you regretting me again”

his breath shudders out, uneven. for a moment you think he might hang up.

but then, low and almost childlike, he whispers, “don’t hang up yet. just… let me hear you breathe. please.”

you can hear him breathing, the faint hum of bass still leaking through wherever he is, the muffled echo of voices around him. and in the quiet, you almost hear your own pulse, hammering too hard in your chest

“…okay,” you whisper, so soft you’re not sure he even caught it

but he does. his breath hitches, like that single word is the rope he’s been dangling for, the one thing keeping him from slipping under

and then nothing. just you and him, suspended in the dark, both pretending you’re not falling apart.

your mind spirals—marcus asleep just a few steps away, the man you’ve been trying so hard to build something real with. the man who’s steady, who’s good, who’s safe.

and yet you’re standing here, clutching the phone like it’s lifeline and poison all at once.

finally, you say “i’m in the kitchen now. he can’t hear us.”

the words leave your lips and immediately coil around your throat, suffocating. but you can’t take them back.

rafe goes quiet on the other end, stunned. his drunken mind stalls, flashes. ‘she’s in the kitchen. not her kitchen. not some neutral place. his kitchen. his house. marcus’ house’

not the same counters rafe used to lift you onto, not the same table where he once had you laughing and gasping with his hand between your thighs.

a hot wave of jealousy smashes through his chest

“you’re at his place?” he mutters, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “you sleep in his bed now?”

the accusation is heavy, but beneath it is hurt, raw and bare

“rafe…” you whisper, pressing your forehead into your palm. “please don’t—”

but he cuts you off, his voice low, sharp, cracking. “does he do it like me? does he touch you like i did?”

your stomach drops “rafe—”

“answer me,” he snaps, though it wavers, slurred with whiskey “when he puts his hands on you, when he kisses you, does it feel like me? does it even come close?”

you grip the counter so hard your knuckles ache. the memory of rafe’s hands is still etched into your skin, every brush, every bruise, every desperate pull. it clings like smoke, no matter how many showers you take, no matter how soft marcus’ touch is.

“stop,” you murmur, but your voice shakes.

he hears it. he knows that tremor better than anyone. and it fuels him.

“he doesn’t, does he?” rafe’s tone drops to something darker, almost pleading. “he doesn’t fuck you like i did. doesn’t make you fall apart just by looking at you. tell me the truth. when he’s inside you, do you close your eyes and see me?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, breath trembling. images flood you—rafe pinning you to his sheets, rafe’s breath hot against your ear, rafe saying your name like it was the only thing he knew how to

and now him, drunk and broken, tearing your heart open over the phone “rafe,” you whisper, broken.

“fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the ragged desperation in him, the way he’s clinging to every shred of you. “i can’t stand it, baby. i can’t stand knowing he’s the one who gets to lay beside you now. that you wear his shirt to bed, that you smile at him in the morning. that you let him touch what used to be mine.”

your throat closes. you hate how much it hurts. you hate how much of it is true

“rafe, please,” you choke out. “you’re making this worse.”

“worse?” he laughs, bitter and jagged. “i’m already worse. i’m already wrecked. don’t you get it? you were the only good thing i ever had, and i let you go. and now he gets to keep you warm while i’m out here in the fucking cold.”

his voice breaks on the last word.

you press a shaking hand to your lips, tears burning your eyes

and when you don’t answer, when you can’t, he whispers it again but lower, gutted “does he do it like me?”

you know he’s waiting—waiting for you to confess something you can’t, something you shouldn’t

“rafe,” you whisper, the crack in your voice giving you away. “if you don’t stop, i’ll hang up.”

the words slice through him. clean, sharp, terrifying. his whole chest seizes. in one instant, the anger, the bitterness, the drunk recklessness—all of it falls away, leaving only panic.

“no—no, wait,” he blurts, fast, desperate. “don’t—don’t hang up. i’m sorry. fuck, i’m sorry.”

you breathe hard, your grip on the phone tightening. you’ve never heard him sound like this. not even in your worst fights

“i didn’t mean—i just—” his words tangle, his voice cracking. “please, don’t go quiet on me. i can’t take it. you don’t know what it’s like, hearing your voice after so long—it’s the only thing that feels real right now. please.”

your chest aches. you press your palm against the countertop to keep stead “rafe…”

“i’ll shut up, i swear,” he stammers. “i won’t say another word about him, about you, about us. just—just don’t hang up. don’t leave me here with my head.”

he drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts. “i’m sorry i said that shit. i’m drunk, i’m stupid, i’m jealous, but i didn’t call to hurt you. i swear i didn’t. i just—i didn’t know what else to do. i couldn’t stop thinking about you. i tried, but i can’t. i don’t know how”

his voice breaks entirely now, cracking into something you’ve never let yourself imagine. never knew rafe cameron could sound so…small. fragile. like the boy under all the bravado has been stripped bare.

“please, just stay with me a little longer. i’ll behave. i promise.”

your throat tightens. it’s dangerous, this moment—the vulnerability, the way he sounds like he’s on his knees, the way it tugs at the part of you that still aches for him

and god, that part is still there, no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury it

“rafe,” you say softly, like you’re testing the weight of his name. “you can’t keep doing this.”

“i know,” he whispers, broken. “i know i can’t. but i don’t know how to stop.”

“please,” he murmurs again, so low it barely catches through the phone. “just… do me one last favor.”

your stomach twists. you press your fingers into the countertop, grounding yourself, because even drunk, even broken, he still knows how to thread his way under your skin

“fuck…” you whisper, already wary, already knowing. “what favor?”

there’s a pause. you can hear him breathing on the other end, ragged, like he’s working up the courage.

and then, softly, almost like he’s ashamed to even say it—“please see me. one last time. for closure.”

the word hangs there between you, too heavy, too sharp. closure. you hate how it echoes, how it tempts.

your eyes squeeze shut, breath catching. because you know what “closure” with rafe means. it’s never clean, never simple. it’s messy and bleeding and hands that won’t let go even when they should. it’s never just goodbye—it’s just another wound, maybe another desperate fuck

“rafe…” you try again, but your voice breaks.

“i need it,” he whispers, desperate now. “please. i can’t keep walking around with this weight, with you haunting me every night. i see you everywhere. i hear you in my head. i just—i just need to see you, one last time, and then i’ll let go. i’ll let you go.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. because part of you wants to believe him, part of you aches for that promise of release. but another part knows—knows that with rafe cameron, there is no such thing as “one last time.”

he senses your hesitation, hears the silence like a blade against his throat

“please,” he says again, more broken now, almost childlike. “just one last time. i swear, i swear i won’t ask for more. i just need to look at you. to know you’re real. to say goodbye the right way.”

your chest aches. your heart is beating too fast, too loud, like marcus might hear it even from the other room.

“you’re drunk, rafe,” you whisper, trying to sound steadier than you feel. “stop this.”

there’s a beat of quiet. then a low, bitter laugh, raw around the edges.

“yeah,” he says. “i’m drunk. i’ve been drunk since the day you left me.”

your throat burns. “rafe—”

“no, listen,” he cuts in, rushing, terrified you’ll hang up before he’s finished. “i don’t care that i’m drunk. i don’t care if i sound pathetic. you don’t understand what it’s like—lying awake at night knowing you’re in someone else’s bed. knowing someone else gets to hold you, touch you, breathe the same air as you. i can’t take it.”

you close your eyes, nails digging into your palm. “that’s not fair.”

“i know it’s not,” he says instantly, brokenly. “i know. but i don’t care. i can’t pretend to be fair about you. i don’t have it in me”

the weight of his words presses down until you feel like you might collapse under it.

“rafe,” you try again, softer now, almost pleading. “you have to go home. sleep this off. this isn’t—this isn’t good for either of us.”

but he barrels past you, voice cracking. “then don’t come in my house. you don’t have to come inside. you can drive—you can come here, or…or i’ll meet you wherever you want. in front of your house, in the middle of the fucking street, i don’t care. i’ll stand there and take it if your dad beats me bloody. i’ll take anything, as long as i can just see you.”

your heart slams hard in your chest, uneven, traitorous. the way he says it—reckless, raw, like there’s no bottom he won’t drop to—it shakes something inside you.

you grip the counter so tight your knuckles ache “fuck…” you whisper, but it comes out wrong—too soft, too close to giving in.

he hears it. you know he hears it.

your hand is shaking around the phone, nails pressing crescents into your skin, as if pain alone can anchor you. you know you should hang up. you know you should draw a line so sharp it cuts him clean out of your life.

but your mouth betrays you, so…“one last time…” you whisper, so quiet you almost hope he won’t catch it.

the silence that follows is devastating. for a second you think maybe the call dropped, maybe he’s too far gone to even hear you.

“what?” his voice is unsteady, thrashed raw, like those three words knocked the air out of him.

you close your eyes, guilt hot in your throat. “don’t-don’t make me repeat it.”

a sound breaks out of him, half a laugh, half a sob. you’ve never heard anything like it “fuck… you don’t know what that does to me. you can’t just—you can’t say that unless you mean it.”

“i don’t,” you snap, too fast, too defensive. “i mean—i do, but not how you think. not—”

your breath hitches. “i just want this to end. i want it to be over, rafe. and if seeing you one last time… if that’s what it takes for you to finally let me go, then fine. one last time.”

he’s quiet, but you can hear the way he’s breathing, fast and shallow like he’s just surfaced from underwater

“you don’t get it,” he finally whispers. “there’s no such thing as one last time with you.”

your stomach twists painfully. “then maybe this time we make it real.”

he laughs again, hollow, bitter. “you really think i could look at you—touch you—and then just walk away?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. “rafe—”

“say it again,” he interrupts, pleading now. “say it’s one last time. just… let me hear it.”

your chest caves in. because you know once you say it, once you give it voice again, there’s no going back.

and yet, with your heart in your throat, you whisper anyway “one last time.”

and so you start to think… even now.

he still calls you, even now.

and you still answer, even now.

you still agree to seeing him… even now.

to be continued…?

masterlist

note hiii nonnie i hope you liked this???i put my whole pussy into this 😭😭

tags @rafesbabygirlx @prettytheyswag @rgrimesr @whosyourmommy69 @abireichstein @silkylovey @macbaetwo @t0x1cfaerie @imliterallysocoolfr @sydneysslove @bebebambs @loverliner @beabogsims @dsfault @rosetintmworld @daddyrafeslittleslut @drewsephrry @emeloyy @littlelamy @marsisonmarsrn to be tagged

“Gotta go,” Rafe mutters as he pushes up from the table.

“Rafe—where the fuck are you goin?” One of the guys calls after him, but he’s not listening. Kelce points lazily over to the bar, gesturing to JJ, already knowing full-well what would happen next, muttering to Topper about sleeping on the pullout bed in their hotel room tonight.

“Hey—”

“Not in the mood,” you warn before he can even get his words out; your voice, sharp and annoyed as your heels clap along the pavement.

Rafe chuckles, lifting his hands in surrender. “Hey I’m on your team—”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard before you turn, recognizing a familiar voice. Rafe smiles as you meet his pretty blue eyes—his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hey. You alright?” He asks gently but you can see in his eyes that he knows the answer.

You let out a dry laugh as you shake your head ‘no,’ wrapping your arms around your waist as you step a little closer. He nods, looking down at you, his smile widening as you close the gap between you.

“Guessing you already know that?” You ask with a playful tip of your head.

He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his hand over his mouth to snuff out his smile. “You’re makin’ it sound like I’ve been stalking you, pretty.”

“Pretty?” You ask, feeling your cheeks warm up from the term of endearment. He bites his lip slightly and smiles. “Haven’t you been—stalking me, that is?”

He shrugs, rocking back on his heels a little as he marinates with that thought for a bit, playing with you. “I wouldn’t say that… But you are kinda hard to ignore.”

“Is that so?” You ask as you bat your lashes a few times, making him blush.

“I saw you sittin’ on the glass,” Rafe admits. “Heard JJ talkin’ in the parking lot after. Figured I’d tell the boys to come here.” His tongue pokes against his cheek as he says the words out loud, making your accusations from before even more laughable. “So, yeah… maybe I am a little bit of a stalker.”

You giggle and shake your head, looking up at him as Rafe glances down at your phone.

“So… What are you sayin’ to him?” He asks curiously.

You scoff and sigh, “M’telling him I saw what he did and that I’m done.”

Rafe nods as if that was the only logical response. Your eyes flick up from your phone as he does the same, matching your gaze—a flicker of something darker in both your eyes. “I just wanna make him pay,” you smile. “Show him, I’m not the only one who can do whoever they want.”

Rafe’s lips quirked into a smile, catching the way you said ‘whoever’ instead of ‘whatever.’ “You meant that, huh?” He asks as his smile deepens.

“Yeah,” you answer without hesitation.

“So what, you wanna do me? Is that what we’re gettin’ at here?” He asks as he battles back a smile.

“I do,” you answer again with a confidence that makes his breath catch. His smile never wavers as he looks back at you, curious about what you’ll say next, not doubting that you’re surprising him with every word that slips your lips already. “— Under one condition.”

He raises a brow, stepping a little closer. “Yeah? N’what’s that, princess?”

You hold his gaze as your lips curl into a smirk. “We record it. And send it to him.”

Rafe’s mouth parts in quiet surprise, his lashes fluttering as he replays the words in his head, and for a second, you think he’ll say ‘no’—that maybe you pushed it a little too far for night one.

He tilts a little closer, wrapping his arm around your waist, leading you in the other direction from where you were headed.

“I got a mirror on my ceiling.”

The lights are down low, just enough for Rafe to get the perfect shot as he lays down on his big hotel bed, the light of your camera phone glowing as you crawl closer.

“Fuck, you look so good,” he groans as you crawl on top, straddling his lap, your weight on your hands, pressed against his firm chest. Rafe’s heart races underneath as he looks up at you in awe, holding your hip in his large hand, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth, following your movements as you grind your wet pussy on his hard dick with his camera pointed right at it.

He lifts the camera to the ceiling, and you look up as well, smiling for JJ to see.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles as he smacks your ass. “Don’t worry, Maybank—I’ll take real good care of her from now on,” he huffs, his words fading to a deep moan as you move your hand between your thighs, wrapping your fingers around his thick dick, tilting your body closer.

You breathe against his mouth as you stroke his long length, nice and slow. "You’re gonna take care of me, baby?" Rafe’s eyes roll back at your words. A deep, gravelly moan thunders in his throat as you kiss along his jawline.

“Mhmm… I am, princess. I promise,” he sighs as he reaches his hand out, propping it up on the nightstand. Rafe's head falls back into the pillow, giving you access to his skin, your lips taking purchase of his neck, kissing lower and lower, his muscles tightening under your soft touches.

You tease him with the tip of your tongue, tracing his deep v-line as you work your way between his thighs, finally getting a good look at his rock-hard cock; pussy pulsing, body aching to be stuffed full of him.

You wrap your fingers around his dick, holding him straight, licking along the side of his dick, making him moan needily.

Your tongue travels across his hard skin, exploring every inch, taunting him some more. He grips your hair suddenly, pulling you back, making you gasp, goosebumps fanning across his thick thighs. You flick your eyes at him, catching his rapid breathing.

"Maybe I should thank him for being a fuckin’ idiot—otherwise, I wouldn’t have you like this, pretty," he taunts, causing a smirk to stretch across your lips.

"It’d be rude if you didn’t," you whisper sweetly before you tap his tip against your tongue.

A little trail of precum rolls down the side of his heavy cock, making your mouth water. You trace the trail of his vein, making him shudder out a breath. "Mpfhh… Thank you," he moans as he shakes his head and smiles, the man on cloud nine, as you kiss and suck on his head sloppily.

“Polite and hung. How did I get so lucky?” You ask sweetly, rubbing his tip against your pillowy lips, his swollen head sheened with spit.

Rafe rests his big hands on the top of your head, scratching his rough fingertips in your hair, causing your eyes to fall shut. You take his cue, wrapping your lips around him, taking him inch by inch. "Yeah, baby. Just like that," he groans.

Rafe guides you, stroking his cock with your mouth, pitching his hips, driving his tip to the back of your throat, causing you to gag. You suck in your cheeks, keeping your lips tight around his thick dick, feeling a slight ache in your jaw as you bob up and down.

"Ugh, shiiit—You... You're so good at suckin' dick. Fuck me,” he moans like a slut as you add your hand, working him closer and closer to his peak.

Your wrist moves in tandem with your mouth, laboring messily, thoroughly coating his cock with your saliva, slurping and squelching, making his toes curl with each stroke of your fist.

Praise falls from his lips as he mutters incoherently, trying to keep his eyes on yours as the phone trembles slightly in his hand.

Rafe's grip on your hair tightens as a husky groan releases from his lips. You take him deep in your throat before sucking back to his tip, pulling a pathetic whimper from his mouth as he looks back at you, watching as tears roll down your cheeks.

Rafe reaches out, brushing them away with his thumb before sucking it clean as you stroke his cock in your hand. "Fuck you look good, princess, Mmm... Gonna cum—"

"Where do you want it," you whisper warmly against his throbbing dick.

"Mouth... Fuck, I wanna cum in that pretty fuckin' mouth," he pleads as your lips circle him again, spit seeping down to his balls. The sensation and pleasure of it all sends him over the edge. Rafe's toned hips jolt upwards, thighs trembling and flexing tightly.

"Fuuck, baby," he moans as his sticky load paints the back of your throat. His eyes pinch shut, cock throbbing on your tongue as you milk out his last bits of pleasure. You draw your lips off him slowly, Rafe's body melting into the bed.

"Co'mere, sweetheart," he whispers drunkenly, sighing as you slink higher, working toward his lips as he sets the phone down on the nightstand. "You're my girl now," he mumbles between kisses. "My fuckin' girl."

"M'Yours, Rafe," you whisper, kissing him deeply.

“You gonna let me take care of you, princess?"

You bite your lip and nod as Rafe rolls you to your back, looks back at you with lust-filled eyes. The damp fringe of his bangs skimming his forehead. He leans down for a kiss, claiming your mouth; tongue working between your lips, sliding along yours.

"Can't believe he treated you so bad. I'm gonna make it up to you. I promise,” he mutters smugly.

“Wanna feel you inside me."

“Condom?”

You giggle as you hold his cheek in your hand, brushing your thumb along his plump bottom lip. “Whatever you want…“

“What do you think I’m gonna say, baby?” He asks as he crawls to your lips, hard cock dragging against your tummy, smudging precum along your warm skin. Rafe lays himself down on top of you, pinning you to the bed. He grabs your cheeks with one hand, kissing your lips roughly.

“I think you’re gonna tell me ‘you wanna cum in my pussy’,” you whisper against his lips as he swirls his fat tip around your drooling hole, pressing in just enough to make your mouth fall in a soft ‘o’, moaning into his mouth at the stretch.

“Smart and soaking fuckin’ wet… How did I get so lucky?” You chuckle sleazily and roll your eyes as his eyes flick to the camera, smiling at it. "Bet you wish you were me right now," he mutters, thrusting into you roughly, giving you all of him, making you scream his name.

“Rafe, shit—“

"Fuck, sweetheart. Keep goin’, Yeah? Keep saying my name," he praises as he grips your thighs, slinging them over his big shoulders. Your eyes widen as his thick cock stretches you out. Rafe presses his full weight into you, making your trembling hands reach for his hips.

"So deep, Rafe," you blubber.

"Too much?"

You bite down on your bottom lip, shaking your head no.

"So damn tight. This fucking pussy, baby." Rafe starts to move, rolling and snapping his hips into you at the perfect pace. “Tell me—was he ever this deep?”

Your eyes flutter shut as you toe the line between pleasure and pain; the knot in your belly threatening to break as you shake your head no.

“Didn’t think so… Look at that shit. Holy fuck," he chuckles raspily. His large hand rests on your lower stomach, the tip of his big cock making a slight bulge in your tummy.

Rafe drops your thighs from his shoulders, taking a bruising grip on your hips, fucking into you rough and fast, causing the hardware of the hotel bed to clatter.

You grab his wrists from your hips, dragging them up your body, curling them to your neck, urging him to squeeze. He smiles as he tightens his hold even more, making you choke and sputter. Your rapid pulse raps against his palm, the metal of his rings chilling your dewy skin.

“Tighter," you pant. Rafe laughs wickedly, applying further pressure, making your eyes fall closed, breasts bouncing with each thrust. Rafe lifts his hand, slapping your cheek just enough to sting.

"Rafe... I." You stutter as you feel your pleasure about to burn through you. "I can't..."

"Mmm... Not until I tell you. You understand?"

"Please!" You moan. You can't hold back your bliss even if you tried. Your climax claims your body. "Rafe, fuck!" You sob. He continues to rail you, not letting up. You force your eyes open, meeting his stare; Rafe quickly hides his smile.

"What the fuck did I say, huh?”

"I'm so—" He cuts you off with his big fingers pushing through your kiss-swollen lips, landing on your tongue.

"Suck." Rafe draws his fingers down to your clit, circling them quickly. You feel yourself right back at the edge of ecstasy; your eyes start to fall shut as exhaustion sets in. "Look at me, or I might just stop." He slows his strokes, hands working slower as he threatens to cease altogether, smiling at you darkly.

"Don’t stop," you cry as you stare into his beautiful blue eyes.

“Manners… C’mon now.”

“Please, baby—” You whimper so pitifully that he’s sticking his bottom lip out with you. Rafe lowers himself to your lips, his muscular body clapping against you again and again. "I want you to be a good girl and cum f'me. Think you can do that?" He murmurs between kisses. "Can you say my name? It sounds so fucking good... So. Fucking. Good."

"Give it to me, daddy," you whine. "Are you—" You start, voice cutting short, as pleasure takes complete control.

"Yeah, baby, I am. Fuck. I'm right there." You pull him in tighter, hooking your ankles around his trim waist, his name punching out with a hoarse, cock-drunk cry, hips pushing one last time, filling you full. He kisses you deeply, breathing heavily with you as tears of pleasure wet your cheeks. Your pussy flutters around him, milking his cock as he rocks sloppily to a stop.

“Jesus Christ, Rafe,” you giggle as your entire body trembles.

He lets out a sleazy laugh, pretty proud of himself for the mess he made of you. “Hear that, Maybank. I win again.”

Rafe reaches over, flicks off the camera before shutting it off, passing it to you.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, your bodies tangled in each other, wrapped in sheets. Rafe looks over at you, his chest rising and falling fast—his hair a mess. You giggle as you match his eyes, your pillowy lips pulling into a soft smile.

“I can’t send it,” you whisper.

Rafe covers his face with his hands, running them down as he lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he breathes as he pulls you in closer. “Was hopin’ you’d say that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“If this were just a one-time thing I’d be pissed,” he breathes, trying to keep his tone playful but there’s no hiding the look in his eyes. He’s dead-serious about this. “M’already gettin’ a little jealous and possessive over you,” he mutters as his eyes shift back to you to gauge your reaction.

“No, I love that shit,” you giggle as your tongue pokes between your teeth as you smile.

“Yeah? Good... Fuckin’ perfect, actually,” he smiles as he reaches over, squeezing your ass in his hand, using his hold on your body to pull you in for a kiss.

You reach over, running a hand over his chest, fingers tracing the sweat-licked skin. “We should send him a picture instead.”

Rafe lets out a deep chuckle. “That’ll do it… Think he’ll know it’s me?”

“Maybe?”

“Hopefully,” he corrects you as he leans in for another kiss.

You lift your phone, snapping the perfect picture of your hand on Rafe’s bare chest, his gold chain and shimmery number two tangled between your fingers, sending it to JJ.

Rafe watches curiously as you tap a few buttons on your phone. His brows furrowed as the TV across the room lights up.

“Oh, you’re something else,” Rafe murmurs, watching as the video you just took starts playing on the screen.

“Someone’s gotta watch it.”

“Round two while we watch it?”

“And I’m something else?” You giggle as you lean in for a kiss, feeling Rafe smile against your mouth.

“Mhmm… And now you’re mine.”

“hi handsome,” you purred, arms around his neck like you’d never left. “miss me?” rafe blinked up at you, hands automatically landing at your hips like clockwork, squeezing.

alexander stood up slowly then, little fists balled at his sides, betrayal written all over his tiny face. you flashed him a grin, feeling to comfortable on your fiancé’s lap to care. “sorry, stinky. he’s booked and busy.”

but the heartbreak on your brothers face nearly made you break character. his bottom lip wobbled, and the saddest puppy eyes known to mankind locked straight onto rafe. “but… my rayray…”

rafe’s hands tightened around you, his face pained. he glanced down at alexander, then back at you, panicking a little. “uh-oh,” he muttered under his breath.

“i didn’t do anything!” you hissed, refusing to move, leaning into rafe even more like a little parasite. “he had his turn.” you ran your fingertips across his jaw, looking at him with your own set of puppy eyes. “not my fault he fell in love with you.”

but then came the sniffle. and your stomach sank. oh no. alexander stood there, looking crushed, shoulders drooping before he whispered, “you’re so mean…” rafe winced, shifting under you. “y/n baby…”

you glanced down at your brother, guilt finally kicking in as his eyes welled up. “oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face in rafe’s shoulder for a second before flopping off his lap dramatically. “fine! there, you little maniac. steal my man again.”

alexander didn’t waste a second. he dove back onto rafe’s lap like a clingy baby koala, letting out a last little sniffle as he curled up against him, shooting you a smug look from the safety of your fiancé’s chest.

you crossed your arms, sulking next to them on the couch. “traitor,” you mumbled at rafe, who had the audacity to grin at you, one arm around alexander again. “you started it,” he teased.

“okay, but he cried.” you pointed at him, which just made alexander stick out his tongue. you pointed accusingly at your little brother, which only made him smirk even wider.

“don’t look so damn proud,” you scolded, flicking his forehead with all the gentleness you could muster. “still mean.” alexander giggled and you couldn’t hide your own smile. after all he wasn’t that bad.

“well,” you smirked, leaning over to peck his cheek, “being the bad guy’s kinda my thing.” the little one was quick to wipe his cheek, pretending to hate it, but he also couldn’t hold back his little grin.

and while rafe, sat between his pouty soon-to-be wife and a clingy toddler who worshipped him, he felt his heart do that little flutter again, knowing he was right where he was supposed to be. with you.