#bfb!rafe

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who finds reasons to be in the same space as you, walking into rooms you and sarah are in, leaning in the doorways, making annoying comments on the things you're both doing, or hovering just enough to get your attention without making it obvious.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who realizes real quick you don’t treat him like everyone else does, rolling your eyes, brushing past him, muttering a quiet “fuck off, Rafe” when he blocks your path, and instead of backing off, it only makes him push more, his forbidden fruit.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who tests the line constantly by standing too close in empty hallways, letting his hand brush yours, watching you carefully like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and noticing when you don’t.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who ends up alone with you one time and doesn’t move out of your way, head tilted, smirk slow, “you’re different when sarah’s not around.” and something about the way you don’t deny it? yeah, that’s where it clicks for him.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who somehow gets your number and starts texting you, casual at first like it’s the most insignificant thing in the world, then with purpose and he sees the exact moment you stop pretending you’re not interested, and he steals the opportunity with quickness.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who corners you in the kitchen when the house is quiet, voice low, stepping into your space like he’s been waiting for this “i know what you’re doing, right” a small tilt of his head, “what do you mean?” you reply. his eyes flicking to your lips, “this little game” and when you don’t walk away, his lips find yours, closing the distance.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who who wasn’t supposed to cross that line, but now that he has, there’s is absolutely no going back. he keeps it secret at first, saying things like a quiet “come here,” slipping you down hallways and into his room, the door shutting quick behind you like second nature.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who always keeps one ear out for footsteps, but still lingers, still keeps you close a second longer than he should, like he physically can’t help it. bsfriendsbrother!rafe who, right before you leave his room, grabs your wrist and pulls you back in for one more second, forehead resting against yours, “you’re trouble,” he mutters, and when you whisper, “you started it,” he just smirks satisfied “oh and i’m not stoppin’ sweetheart.”

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who tries to fix your hair before you leave, straightens your clothes, with a low voice right by your ear, “you’re fine baby, just act normal.” like he didn’t just make that impossible, like that ‘baby’ didn’t just make you weak at the knees. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who acts like nothing’s happening in front of everyone, barely looks at you but somehow, you both always disappear at the same time at parties, reappearing minutes later like nothing happened, and no one suspects it, because you act like you hate him in front of people. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who actually catches you staring at him across the room and doesn’t look away this time, just smirks knowingly. later, when he finally gets you alone, he leans in close, voice low “keep lookin’ at me like that in front of everyone, and see what happens.”

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who thrives off the secrecy of it. the risk of it all, the way you both have to listen for doors opening, or voices getting too close. and the way you come back flustered every single time, rambling excuses. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who brushes past you in a crowded room, fingers grazing your lower back just enough to make your stomach flutter, and without even looking at you, he mutters, “meet me upstairs in five.” and the worst part? you always go.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who watches you text the groupchat, “can’t today, next time!” while you’re sitting right next to him, and that smug little smirk settles, with that proud pit in his stomach like he’s saying ‘yeah, she chose me.’

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who overhears some assholes at the country club talking about how they want to hook up with you, and has to control himself from becoming his old reckless self again. but smirks saying “i think she’s taken” with a shrug 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who texts you while you’re sitting right next to sarah with no shame, phone buzzing in your hand, rafe: you look prettyand when you glance up, he’s already watching you, eyes low, leaning back like nothing’s wrong you: you’re gonna get us caughtrafe: that’s the the risk of the game

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who tells himself it’s just a fling at first, you’re just sneaking around, or it’s just something to pass time. but he keeps coming back, he keeps pulling you aside, he keeps wanting more than just a few minutes, and even a few minutes to him isn’t becoming enough anymore. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who gets irritated when you pull away, questioning what you’re doing. his jaw’s tight, voice lowering out of hurt and annoyance, “you’re still here, aren’t you?” like that alone proves you feel it too.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who starts blurring the lines without even realizing. spending more time and longer nights together. the moments becoming more intimate until you both realize it’s not just a fling anymore. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who shows up to your house one night with hibiscus flowers, because you briefly mentioned once you liked them. acting like it’s the most normal thing, given your ‘situation’ but he’s watching your reaction a little too closely for it to just be nothing.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who starts taking you out, but always somewhere off the obx, on the mainland, somewhere no one will recognize you, no chance of it getting back to sarah, or any of your other friends.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who is still cocky and a little dangerous, but softer with you in ways he doesn’t even realize, like it just natural.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who loves when you start soft launching him on instagram, with pictures like your hand in his, or his chain, or his shoulder, but never his face. just enough to have people asking questions, and people, including sarah asked many questions. 

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who overhears people talking about your ‘mystery man’ and just leans back, smirking to himself, because they have no idea it’s him, the one person it shouldn’t be.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who kinda treats it like a game, sneaking around, and he loves how long you both get away with it.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who starts getting more careless over time, holding onto you a little longer, looking at you a little too openly, sending winks your way, like he’s slowly caring less about who finds out.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who realizes he’s in too deep when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling like he wants it to be his normal, like he doesn’t just want secret moments anymore, he wants all of it, he wants people to know you’re his.

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who gets a little jealous when someone’s talking to you too long, stepping in casually, arm brushing yours, “she’s busy,” he says smoothly, eyes not leaving yours, then quieter, just to you, “or you forgot that?”

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who doesn’t care he’s just did that in a crowd of people, “are you fucking insane?” you ask him, shocked he would defend you like that so publicly, he leans down to your ear, his lips almost brushing your skin, “pretty girl i dont give a fuck who’s watchin’ anymore.”

bsfriendsbrother!rafe who knows you’re hesitant because of sarah. he knows that once she finds out all hell will break loose. she’ll be angry about the line you crossed the second you let him even touch you. but would rather deal with sarah’s anger, than pretend he doesn’t want you and everything that entails you anymore.

But this summer was different. You’d felt it the moment you arrived back on the island in June, something new humming beneath your skin every time you walked through the Cameron’s front door. At first, you simply told yourself it was nothing. Maybe the strange sensation of being a year older now, seeing familiar spaces through different eyes.

Except it wasn’t the spaces that felt different… It was him.

Rafe was, much to Sarah’s dismay, part of the package deal. Sarah’s older brother who’s spent years making your days just difficult enough to be annoying. When you were fourteen and he was sixteen, he’d started stealing every last cherry popsicle even though he knew you always had dibs. You wouldn’t have to look far to catch him smirking at you from across the kitchen as Sarah called him a dick.

At fifteen, you finally worked up the nerve to ask for surf lessons. He agreed, and you’d paddled out with him on a calm morning while Sarah was out shopping with Wheezie and Rose. Much to your surprise, his voice was lacking that particular condescending cadence he usually carried around you. Though, that was only until he let go of your board the second a decent wave came, leaving you to flounder and swallow saltwater while he watched, chuckling from his board.

By seventeen, you learned to give as good as you got. You perfected the art of rolling your eyes in that specific way that made his jaw tick, mastered the skill of laughing at his jokes just a second too late so he wouldn’t know if you were laughing at the joke or him. He’d started calling you Sarah’s Shadow somewhere around that time, but then his friends had begun doing it too. You caught him shutting it down once at the country club, a sharp "knock it off" that surprised you as much as it looked to surprise himself.

But in the summers between that and this one, something had changed. The teasing stopped and the distance that followed started to feel less like that sibling adjacent irritation and more like active avoidance. And also like he was trying very, very hard not to look at you.

Which, naturally, meant you couldn’t stop looking at him.

Tonight’s party was no exception. It was fine, forgettable had it not been for the way you kept catching him at the edges of your vision. Rafe, across the room with a drink in his hand he barely touched, mouth tight like he was working through something. You’d feel the weight of his gaze land on you and by the time you turned, he was already looking elsewhere. It happened once, twice, and then three times before you stopped counting and started pretending you didn’t notice.

And Sarah, between her fourth drink and fifth shot, had overdone it. You spent the last hour of your night fielding her weight against your shoulder while she mumbled apologies into your hair, weighing your options of calling John B for help or handling it yourself. Ultimately, you opted for the latter, managing to tuck her into her bed with a glass of water on the nightstand and a trash can placed beside her just in case. 

The kitchen is dark and quiet when you finally make it downstairs, nothing but the moonlight and distant crash of waves through the cracked window. You busy yourself by spilling kettle chips onto a plate and stacking sliced cheese into a haphazard wall between them and the pickle spears you fished from the back of the fridge.

Drunk Sarah had been insistent on snacks, and you seized the excuse like a lifeline, slipping out of her room the moment her eyes fluttered shut mid-sentence.

Just when you’re weighing the merits of unwrapping the chocolate bar versus leaving it whole, the front door opens. The ruckus of it carelessly slamming shut cuts through your single moment of peace.

Wheezie’s at a sleepover. Rose and Ward are somewhere on the mainland, pretending they still go on date nights for romance and not just to be seen. Which only leaves—

Eyes lifting, they see Rafe just as he rounds his way toward the staircase, mid-stride when his gaze reaches yours, almost accidentally. Your hands still and his keys jingle once in his grip before going quiet. Just as quickly, he looks away, continuing on his way and leaving you to exhale slowly through your nose. 

Fine. Good.

Except, halfway to the stairs, his footsteps falter before stopping entirely. He stands frozen for a moment and you’re stuck watching in suspense until he turns toward you once more, something dawning across his face as recognition finally catches up with him. As if he's just now registered who he was looking at.

When his gaze finds yours again, it holds this time, and whatever flickers behind his eyes you have no time to dissect before your head snaps down to the plate in front of you.

One peaceful night. That’s all you wanted. No desire for the snarky back-and-forth that seems to cling to the both of you nowadays, no interest in the way he always finds the crack in your armor and presses just to see if you'll flinch. Fingers busying themselves with the chocolate wrapper, you pray he’ll just keep walking.

But the soft pivot of his expensive shoes tells you a much different story.

He doesn’t say a word as he enters the kitchen. Your eyes stay fixed on the plate, tracking him only by sound; the quiet pad of each footstep, the pull of the refrigerator door, the clink of glass as he reaches for something far in. A bottle cap pops free and skitters across the island you’re working at with a small metallic ring. 

“Making a mess in my kitchen?” “Sarah’s kitchen, technically.” You don't bother looking up, fingers working at the chocolate bar, snapping it into careful pieces. “She’s hungry.” Rafe scoffs. “She’s drunk.” “That too.” The wrapper crinkles beneath your hands as you take your time with it, breaking each square perfectly along its scored lines. If you move slow enough, answer short enough, maybe he’ll get bored. Lose interest, wander upstairs with his beer, and leave you in the quiet dark of the kitchen.

But even as you think it, something in the air tells you otherwise. There’s a weight to his silence tonight, a stillness that doesn’t fit the Rafe you know. The one who’d already be halfway through getting under your skin just because he could. ​​And the worst part is...this quiet version might be doing it better.

He’s not even trying, probably doesn't have a clue that the absence of his usual jabs is somehow louder than the jabs themselves. That without his voice filling the space, you're left with nothing but the sound of your own thoughts, and those have become infinitely more dangerous over the past couple weeks.

You couldn’t be sure when it happened—when that annoyance curdled into something different, something you refused to acknowledge. You'd grown so accustomed to his attention—even the barbed kind—that when it vanished, the absence left a space where he used to be. And instead of relief, you found yourself noticing things you had no business noticing, the angles of him you'd somehow memorized without meaning to.

The way his shoulders moved beneath a shirt, the way they looked without one. How his hands wrapped around a bottle or gripped a steering wheel. You would find yourself tracking the hollow of his throat when he swallowed, the shift of his jaw when he was irritated, the specific slope of his nose in profile when he didn't know you were looking. The sort of details that pile up until they become a problem. And it shouldn't bother you, that partial absence. But it does. It burns in a quiet, stupid way you’d never admit out loud.

A smooth slide of glass against marble is what snaps you back from your clouded thoughts.

Rafe’s beer now sits a little over halfway across the island, closer to you than him, condensation droplets already beading along the surface. Following the line of it, your gaze travels up to where Rafe stands on the opposite side, hands braced in front of him and head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

“What's this for?” The question comes slow and wary because you’re not about to walk yourself into some trap.

Rafe shrugs, tongue running over his bottom row of teeth before a subtle smirk settles across his face. “Barely had anything at that party,” his eyebrows raise as if assessing you. “You look tense.”

The moment he says it, you realize he’s right. Your shoulders are braced up near your ears, back held stiff and straight. Forcing yourself to relax, you shake your head and turn back to the chocolate bar, breaking off the last few squares. “So you were watching me all night?”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation like he didn’t even blink before responding. The confession (could it even be considered one?) lands somewhere beneath your ribs, settling like a stone dropped in still water. Your stomach pulls tight and your throat tightens around the words you work to spit up.

“I don't need your beer.”

“You’re always like this.” His voice is closer now. Too close. At some point between your answer and his, he's rounded the corner of the island. The blood rushing in your ears must've drowned out his footsteps, or maybe it was the pounding of your own heart. 

“Like what?” The question slips before you can stop it, and you hate how breathless it sounds, how effortlessly it gives you away.

Rafe takes another step closer, now close enough that you can smell the weed and hard liquor still clinging to his skin from the party, the faintest traces of cologne beneath it all. “Like you're afraid I'll do something."

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“No?” His head tilts again, the way it does when he’s amused. “Then why do you look like you’re about to bolt?”

Your chin lifts, defiant like maybe you’ll successfully lie your way out of this one. “Maybe I just don’t like you.”

“Liar.” He says it soft, almost fondly, and it makes your pulse stutter because you’ve only heard him like this a handful of times. So few you could count them on one hand. “You’re scared Sarah will see.”

“There’s nothing to see.”

And there isn’t. There won’t be.

“Right...” He lets the response hang there, dangling in front of you as if it’s some sort of twisted test. Then, slowly—so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to—his hand reaches out. He lets his fingers graze the side of your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. A featherlight skim, hardly there unless you’re paying close enough attention. You silently curse yourself for choosing the shortest skirt you own tonight. 

“So this is nothing?” The volume of Rafe’s voice has dropped substantially, just above a whisper. His fingers stay still against your skin, warm against the edge of thin fabric. You can’t find it in you to trust your own voice, so you say nothing, shaking your head and standing rooted to the tile floor as if your feet have forgotten how to work.

His hand begins to move, dragging upward along the curve of your thigh, and you feel the hem of your skirt lift with it. The direction shifts inward, grazing along your hip, to your waist, leaving the fabric to fall back into place. His palm skims the dip of your side, fingertips tracing each rib like he’s memorizing the architecture of you.

“Nothing,” you manage, but the word weakly splinters on its way out.

He hums plainly as his hand keeps traveling. Up the outside of your arm now, leaving goosebumps rising in its wake. Over the curve of your shoulder and the line of your collarbone, all until his fingers find the side of your neck. They linger there for a moment, resting against your pulse point, and you know he can feel it; the way your heart is hammering so hard it might break free and hand itself to him.

Then he’s brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that doesn’t match anything you thought you knew about him. Once he’s happy, his hand settles at the back of your neck, holding you there. 

“And this?” he asks. Suddenly his face is near enough that, even in the poor lighting, you can spot the flecks of grey in his eyes when you look up. This version of Rafe feels different, like even he’s holding his breath between the heavy rises and falls of his chest.

“Nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He leans in, and for one stuttering heartbeat you think he’s about to kiss you, but his lips land on the point of your shoulder instead.

“Then if I…” Rafe’s sentence is left unfinished, and he doesn't need to finish it because his mouth presses gently against your shoulder.

His lips linger there long enough for your eyes to flutter shut, long enough for a small sound of relief to escape before you can swallow it down. Your fingers curl around the edge of your skirt for something to hold onto, and you feel him smile against your skin, a quiet gratification radiating off him in waves.

And again, when he’s satisfied, his lips skim upward, tracing the line of your collarbone with a slowness that borders on the edges of being cruel. Your head tips back ever so slightly into his hold, baring more of you to him, giving him access to everything you shouldn’t be offering but can’t seem to stop yourself from giving anyway.

“If I kiss you here…” Plush lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft against the sensitive skin. You nearly miss the breathy, needy sound that spills from your own mouth, but Rafe doesn't. He huffs a quiet laugh, and the vibration of it sends shivers cascading down your spine. “Still nothing?”

You can’t find it in yourself to articulate a proper answer. Not when your head is spinning, thoughts scattering like startled birds every time his mouth moves against you. At some point your hands abandoned your skirt and curled themselves into the front of his shirt instead, the cotton fabric impossibly soft between your trembling fingers.

Rafe's lips travel higher still, planting a kiss against your jaw and another at the apple of your cheek, each is unhurried, marking a path of its own. Then he’s at the corner of your mouth—so close you can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, so close that if either of you moved even a fraction of an inch it would be over, the last flimsy barrier between you crumbling to dust.

“Well, if that’s nothing,” he edges back to get the words out, lips still brushing against yours with every syllable. “Then I guess you wouldn't mind if I...” He begins to lean in and you follow his lead faster than you mean to, faster than you’d ever admit, pulled toward him by something magnetic and terrifying and completely beyond your control. 

But just before your lips meet, he stops. He pulls away just enough to leave you chasing empty air, mouth parted around nothing, the ghost of a kiss that never landed. Your eyes fly open and he’s still right there, watching you with that same so-sure-of-himself look plastered across his face, a dark and knowing sheen over his eyes. Like he needed to see this, needed to know you’d give in.

Heat floods your face. Was it loss? Frustration? Embarrassment at being caught so openly wanting something you shouldn’t? You feel yourself shrinking backward, shoulders curling in like maybe if you make yourself small enough you can disappear into anywhere that isn’t the weight of his stare. 

Though you don’t get very far, forgetting that shrinking back still means shrinking into his hold. Rafe’s hand tightens at the back of your neck, fingers curling into your skin as he pulls you into him. 

When your lips finally meet, it isn’t gentle. It isn’t tentative or teasing or any of the soft things that came before it. His mouth slants over yours with a sureness that steals the breath from your lungs entirely, kissing you with a sureness like it’s something he’s been holding back for longer than he’d care to admit.

As he twists your bodies around, your spine meets the edge of the counter. You hardly register the bite of it against your lower back because everything has narrowed down to the slide of his lips against yours, how he tastes faintly of beer and something sweeter underneath.

A whimper tumbles from your mouth and into his, and he swallows it wholly. Rafe’s free hand makes its way to your waist, finding that bare strip of skin, digging the pads of his fingers into it. His touch scorches you, sure to leave marks that won’t let you forget even if you tried. The contact sends an overwhelming jolt through you, and you arch into him without meaning to, body acting on instinct while your mind struggles to keep up.

One of your hands travels from his chest to his jaw, fingertips grazing the smooth expanse and feeling the muscle flex beneath your palm. Quickly, his hand mirrors yours, curling around to cup your face. His thumb drags across your cheekbone like he's mapping the terrain of your face now, committing every angle and curve to memory. The gentleness of it contrasts so sharply with the hunger in his kiss that it makes your chest ache, forming a craving that you’re not sure will ever be satisfied without him.

Your ​​other hand slides to the back of his neck, nails grazing along the short hair at the nape and pulling him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth, your name tangled somewhere in the sound. The vibration of it hums against your lips and turns your knees to water. You’re grateful for the counter behind you, grateful for his hands holding you steady, because without them you’re certain you’d collapse, only this time you don’t want to disappear from him.

Time dissolves into something meaningless. You don’t know if it’s been seconds or minutes, only that you never want it to end. Every brush of his lips erases another thought until there’s nothing left but the heat of him pressed against you, that occasional scratch of his teeth against your lips, and the way he kisses you like he's trying to learn the shape of your mouth by heart.

When you part from one another, it’s only far enough to breathe. His hands each squeeze once where they still hold you, almost like he’s reluctant to let go, needing one last confirmation before he forces himself to step away.

Eventually, he does. His hands leave you and yours fall limply to your sides, suddenly useless without him to hold onto. The absence of his warmth is immediate, nearly painful. You press your tingling lips together as if you can trap the ghost of him there, coax some feeling back into them.

Instead of heading for the stairs, Rafe walks backwards to the patio doors. You watch him move even while stuck in a mindless state, feeling like you’re swimming through honey just to catch up. His eyes stay locked with yours the entire time, smirk edged with that version you’ve hardly, if ever, seen before tonight.

“Spend some time with me for once, yeah?”

A fuzzy sort of heat blooms in your chest, spreading outward until it reaches the tips of your fingers. Your head bobs before the words can even register, on its own accord, completely untethered from rational thought.

Rafe’s expression deepens. He turns away from you finally, forcing you to stare at the way his broad shoulders fill out his shirt as his hand finds the door handle. Just before he steps out into the night, he leaves you with one last sentiment:

"Promise I'm fun."

It takes root inside you, festering there like a scar that’ll never leave. A new wave of desire rushes through your veins, pooling unmistakably between your thighs as the French door clicks shut behind him.

Stuck for a moment, maybe two, you let the silence settle. With your breath coming and going at measured paces, it's a conscious effort of pulling yourself back together, gathering all the pieces of yourself he left strewn. Blinking, your hands smooth down your thighs, palms pressing against the fabric of your skirt as if you can wipe away the evidence of what just happened, brush off the sin like it's nothing.

The taste of her brother still burns on your tongue even as reinforce the lie you’ve been telling yourself since summer started.

he did hate you in a sense. rafe hated how you were always everyfuckingwhere. he hated how you had even taken over his sexual fantasies, his dreams and everything inbetween. it made any of his previous hookups seem unappealing in comparison.

rafe very quickly developed what you could call a bit of an obsession with you.

pocketing the underwear that you left laying around in the guest room, using the lacy fabric to jerk off with while you were asleep, leaving them sticky with his cum.

peeking in the slightly open door when you were changing, palming his dick over his jeans, the sight of your body making him hard. inhaling the scent of your perfume any time you left a room because it was intoxicating to him.

one night he even heard you touching yourself. it was just a happy "coincidence" that your room ended up being right beside his own. rafe stood with his ear pressed to the door of your room, not wanting to miss a single thing.

"what a dirty fuckin' girl you are" he murmured, pulling his cock free from his boxers, wasting no time in wrapping a hand tightly around his painfully hard length.

anyone could've caught him lurking outside of your door. he would be labelled as a creep, but the enticing sounds of your moans echoing through the hall were enough to make rafe uninterested in the potential consequences.

deep down rafe knew that all of this was so fucking wrong. he shouldn't be preying on you like this, you were off limits for many different reasons and he knew that. the problem was, he didn't want to stop.

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