— Paul Coelho.

Thinking about Oath of Devotion Paladins, and how over time they seem less and less like flesh and more and more like stone, as solid as their oaths. How more and more it seems like a light shines from their eyes. How their movement slows as they get older, becoming more and more a thing of stone and light. How they become less a person and more an idea, a promise made flesh. When they die, they become a statue with burning light where their eyes once were. Many take their final rest upon seaside cliffs, acting as an eternal beacon to those in need.

Thinking about Oath of the Ancients Paladins, and how the grass they tread upon might grow a bit greener than it did before. How fruit tastes sweeter when they pluck it. How vegetables and grain grow from the blood and bodies of their slain foes. Life springing from bringers of death. How when they bleed, seeds and pollen might release from their wounds along with the blood. How their skin feels more like bark as they grow older. How their presence feels like peace, like rest. How when they die, the Oak Father takes this warrior into his embrace, and a fruit tree grow over their grave, so they might give once more in death as they did in life.

Thinking about Oath of Vengeance Paladins, and how their mere presence might inspire fear and truth. They barely need to ask questions, one look at those eyes, filled with wrathful calm in equal measure is enough to break almost any who look upon them. How their blood might literally boil when it is spilled, so true is their commitment. How they might weep when they are given the chance to at last be kind. How when they die there is nothing to bury, the fire in their souls fueled by their oath consumes their flesh at last, and then they are nothing but ash.

Thinking about Oathbreakers. How the sun is too bright, and it hurts their eyes. How the night is too dark, and always their vision is off. How their hands always find thorns or sharp edges. How every step they take might be an agony, a reminder of how they committed the truest and most fundamental treason of all. How the very air they breath seems to cut at their lungs as the world itself whispers "wrong thing. wrong thing. traitor" in their ears. Their blood never seeps into the ground, only evaporates. Their body does not even rot. The world itself rejects them.

Rafe Cameron was a fortunate, fortunate soul—though he'd probably deck anyone who suggested his devotion was anything less than hard-earned through months of learning exactly how to love you right. Not to sound completely gone, but Jesus, you were devastating even when you were being difficult, especially when you were curled up on his couch looking like something that had been through a blender.

Any guy with half a brain would've run for the hills by now, but Rafe? He planted himself deeper, studied the particular way your mouth pulled down when you were overwhelmed, memorized the exact tone your voice took when you needed him to just fix it without being told what it even was.

Besides, Rafe knows he's earned his place as your designated handler during these moments—the grocery runs when you can barely string a sentence together, the way he's learned to read your silences like sheet music. He'll fight anyone who suggests he's being codependent about it, that he enables your bad moods. Never mind the real reason he's so attuned to your shifts in temperament—what you don't realize about how completely you've rewired his nervous system won't hurt either of you.

You just exist there, sprawled across his sectional like you own it, letting him navigate around your irritation like he's defusing a bomb. Do you even understand how that challenges every controlling instinct he has, forces him to be gentle when gentle doesn't come naturally? How every successful attempt at soothing you feels like winning something he didn't know he was competing for?

The cotton of his t-shirt clings to his chest where he's been rushing around trying to anticipate your needs, and he pauses in the doorway to study you—all messy hair and narrowed eyes, looking like you might bite if he approaches wrong.

"Alright, baby. What’s the damage?" he asks, voice pitched carefully neutral because he's learned that too much concern right off the bat makes you bristle. You don't even look up from where you're glaring at your phone screen, just make some noncommittal sound that could mean anything. He takes that as permission to ease himself down beside you, close enough to help but far enough away that you can't accuse him of hovering.

"Mm-mm," you mumble when he reaches for the throw pillow you've been clutching like a lifeline, and there's that edge to your voice that means you're about three wrong moves away from tears or throwing something. "Don't."

"Okay, okay," Rafe soothes, hands raised in surrender but not retreating completely. "Not touching the pillow. Got it." He settles back against the couch cushions, letting you maintain your grip on whatever small comfort you've claimed. "You eaten anything today, baby?"

"Don't wanna talk about food."

"That's a no, then." He keeps his tone light, conversational, like he's not already mentally cataloging everything in the kitchen that might appeal to you in this state. "What about water? When's the last time you—"

"Rafe." Your voice comes out sharper than you probably intended, all frayed edges and exhaustion. "Please just... can you not? With the questions?"

Does Rafe know you're completely fried, running on empty and irritated at everything including him? Absolutely. Is it worth it to weather your storms because he's the only one you trust to see you like this—raw and prickly and human? Without fucking question.

And it's not just that you let him witness the meltdowns. It's that somewhere underneath all that crankiness, you're still choosing his couch to fall apart on, still letting him exist in your orbit even when everything else feels like too much.

The silence stretches between you like a held breath, and Rafe watches the way your shoulders carry all that tension, the way your fingers worry at the pillow's seam like you're trying to unravel something bigger than fabric. He's learned to read these moments—knows that pushing will only make you retreat further, that sometimes love looks like sitting in the discomfort and waiting for you to find your way back to him. So he does what he does best when you're like this: he makes himself useful in the quietest ways possible.

"I'm gonna go grab some things," he murmurs, already rising from the couch with movements so careful they barely disturb the cushions. "Don't go anywhere, ‘kay?"

You make another one of those noncommittal sounds, but there's less bite in it this time, and he takes that as progress. The kitchen becomes his mission control—he fills a water bottle with ice because you like the way it sounds when you shake it, grabs the heating pad from the linen closet, sets the kettle on for that chamomile blend you pretend not to like but always finish. Every action is deliberate, performed with the kind of reverence other people reserve for handling priceless artifacts.

When he returns, arms full of supplies, you've shifted slightly—still curled in your defensive little ball, but your eyes track his movements with something that might be gratitude if you were feeling generous enough to name it. "What's all that?" you ask, voice still rough around the edges but softer than before.

"Insurance," he says simply, setting everything within reach but not forcing any of it on you. The heating pad goes on the coffee table, the water bottle beside it, the mug of tea close enough that you can smell the gentle steam rising from it. "In case you change your mind about being taken care of."

"I never said I didn't want—" you start, then stop yourself, because even in this state you can recognize the gift he's giving you: the choice to need him without having to ask.

Rafe settles back down, this time a little closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "I know, baby," he coos, and there's something in his voice that makes your chest tight—not the bad kind of tight, but the kind that happens when someone sees exactly what you need before you know it yourself. "You don't have to explain anything. Just... let me sit with you?"

The question hangs in the air like an offering, and you find yourself nodding before you've fully processed the movement. Rafe's smile is small and private, the kind he saves for moments when you let him past your defenses. He reaches for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, shakes it out with practiced ease, and drapes it over both of you without making a production of it.

"Better?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the way you unconsciously lean into his warmth.

"Mm," you hum, and it's the closest thing to contentment you've managed all day. Your head finds his shoulder like it belongs there, and maybe it does—maybe this is what home looks like, messy hair and patient hands and someone who loves you enough to weather your storms without taking them personally.

The transformation happens so gradually you almost don't notice it—the way your breathing evens out against his shoulder, how your fingers stop their restless picking at the pillow seam and instead find the soft cotton of his t-shirt to worry at instead.

Rafe notices, though. He notices everything when it comes to you, catalogs every micro-expression and subtle shift like he's being tested on the material later. The way you're slowly melting into him feels like watching ice cream soften in summer heat—inevitable and sweet and slightly messy in the best possible way.

"Your heart's so loud," you mumble against his chest, voice muffled and drowsy, and there's something so unexpectedly vulnerable about the observation that it makes his breath catch.

"Is it bothering you?" he asks, already prepared to shift positions if you need the quiet, but you shake your head against him, hair tickling his jaw.

"No. It's... nice. Like a metronome." You pause, and he can feel you thinking, can sense the way you're trying to put something formless into words. "Steady."

Christ, if that doesn't just about undo him completely. Rafe's hand finds your hair almost involuntarily, fingers combing through the strands with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who knows him outside of this context. "Yeah? Good steady or boring steady?"

"Good steady," you confirm, and he feels rather than sees the small smile that curves your lips against his shirt. "The kind that means you're not going anywhere."

The trust in those words hits him square in the chest, makes him want to build walls around this moment and keep it safe from everything sharp in the world. His thumb traces slow circles against your scalp, and he watches as your eyes flutter closed, lashes casting delicate shadows on your cheeks. You look so young like this, so soft and unguarded that it makes something fierce and protective rise up in him.

"Never," he promises, voice barely above a whisper. "M’not going anywhere, baby. Not when you need me."

"What if I'm always gonna need you?" The question slips out before you can stop it, small and uncertain, like you're admitting to something that scares you.

Rafe's hand stills in your hair for just a moment before resuming its gentle motion.

When he speaks, his voice carries a weight that makes it clear he's thought about this, that it's not just pretty words meant to soothe. "Then I guess I'm gonna have to stick around forever, huh?"

You lift your head just enough to look at him, and he can see the exact moment something settles in your chest, some anxious knot finally loosening. "Forever's a long time."

"Good thing I'm patient," he says, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with devastating tenderness. "Besides, someone's gotta make sure you drink enough water and eat vegetables. Can't trust you to do it on your own."

The laugh that escapes you is watery and bright, the first real one all day, and Rafe looks at you like you've just performed some kind of miracle. "There she is," he murmurs, so fond it makes your chest ache in the best way. "There's my girl."

The afternoon light has shifted to something golden and drowsy, slanting through the windows and painting everything in warm honey hues that make the moment feel suspended in amber. You've gone completely boneless against him now, all sharp edges smoothed away by his steady presence and careful hands, and Rafe thinks this might be what paradise actually looks like—not some distant beach or expensive vacation, but you trusting him enough to fall apart and let him put you back together piece by gentle piece.

"The tea's getting cold," you observe without making any move to reach for it, content to stay exactly where you are with your cheek pressed to his chest and his fingers still working magic against your scalp.

"Want me to make you a fresh cup?" he offers, though his arms tighten slightly around you like the thought of moving is physically painful.

"Mm-mm." You burrow deeper into his embrace, nose nudging against the soft spot just below his collarbone. "Don't wanna move. Ever."

"Ever's a pretty long time, baby," he teases gently, echoing your earlier words, and you can hear the smile in his voice even with your eyes closed.

"Don't care. This is perfect." The words come out slurred with contentment, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, so soft it's barely there. "You're perfect."

Rafe's laugh is quiet and disbelieving, the kind of sound someone makes when they've been handed something they never thought they deserved. "Baby, I'm pretty sure you've got that backwards." His hand slides down to rub gentle circles between your shoulder blades, and you make a sound that's half purr, half sigh. "You feeling better?"

"Mhm. Magic hands." You lift your head just enough to press a sleepy kiss to his jaw, missing slightly and catching more chin than you intended, but he acts like it's the most precious thing anyone's ever given him anyway. "Magic boyfriend."

"Yeah? Just magic?" There's something playful creeping into his voice now, that particular brand of gentle teasing he reserves for when you're like this—soft and pliable and his.

You pretend to consider it seriously, humming thoughtfully while he waits with exaggerated patience. "Magic... and warm. And you smell good."

"High praise," he murmurs, absolutely gone for you and not bothering to hide it. "Anything else?"

"You stayed," you whisper, and there's something in those two words that makes his chest tight. "Even when I was being mean."

"Baby." His voice goes impossibly soft, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "You weren't being mean. You were having a shitty day. There's a difference."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing that distinction, and then you're tilting your face up to look at him properly. Your eyes are still a little glassy from exhaustion, but there's something clear and grateful shining there now. "I love you," you tell him, simple and honest and devastating in its sincerity.

Rafe's smile is blinding, the kind that transforms his entire face and makes him look years younger. "I love you too, baby. So fucking much." He pulls the blanket higher around both of you, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety that feels separate from the rest of the world. "Now close your eyes. Let me hold you while you nap."