#bff!rafe

you don’t even hesitate. you’re barefoot in slippers and wearing a t shirt that used to be his, but you open the door and slide in like it’s second nature. like you haven’t avoided him for weeks. like he didn’t come out of a bathroom with brianna fucking someone at tpper’s party.

the door shuts. you swallow. he smells like perfume and cigarette ash, like the boy you tried to forget but never could. you keep your eyes ahead, on the dash, on the glowing red clock that says 1:59am like it’s counting down to your destruction.

“i—fuck,” you say, exhaling like you’ve been holding it in for a month. “i don’t even know why i asked you here.”

he shifts beside you, but says nothing. just watches you. just waits.

you laugh dry, sharp. “i mean, we didn’t even talk for weeks. and i’m dating nate. i’m dating someone, rafe. i’m…”

your voice cracks under the weight of it “this was a mistake. god, this was such a fucking mistake.”

you start reaching for the door handle like maybe you’ll escape this moment if you move fast enough. like maybe your slippers will carry you to safety but then he says it. quiet. broken. reverent “you still wear my shirt.”

you freeze. you don’t look at him. because if you do, you’ll see that look—the one that made you stay the night. the one that made you block him to save yourself. the one that made it feel like maybe he actually felt something too.

your hands curl in your lap, you whisper, “shut up.”

he doesn’t “you called me,” he says, softer now. “not him.”

he whispers again, steady this time—too steady, the kind of calm that makes your throat go dry “you didn’t call me here for nothing.”

you press your lips together, like that’ll stop everything rising up your chest. he says it again, lower. “you didn’t.”

you close your eyes. “rafe—”

“you’re clearly thinking about me,” he cuts in, more desperate now, “as much as i’m thinking of you. i know it. i fucking know it.”

“but fuck” your voice cracks. “i’m with nate.”

he flinches at the name.

“and you—” you turn now, finally, facing him. and the words fly out like venom. “you’re fucking brianna, rafe.”

his expression twists, like you slapped him. then “we didn’t do anything.”

you stare at him. he shakes his head, jaw clenched, voice shaky now. “me and brianna. nothing happened.”

you squint, watching his face carefully, because this, you need to know. you need to see it. if there’s any trace of bullshit, of a lie curling around his lips, you’ll smell it from a mile away. you know him like that. but he just looks at you like he’s being flayed alive. his hand fists on the gear shift. “i wanted to. fuck—i’m so dumb. but i did want to. i wanted to forget.”

your pulse spikes. he swallows, like the words are hard to chew.“but the moment i looked at her and saw her face—and not yours…” he trails off. his voice breaks. “i—I couldn’t.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

he lets out this soft, bitter laugh, one that makes your heart twist because it’s so rafe—so dry and sharp and soaked in regret “well, shit. this is fucking embarrassing.”

you wait. he leans his head back against the headrest, stares up at the car ceiling like he wishes it would crush him “my dick went limp,” he says. “that’s what i mean.”

your eyes widen.

rafe doesn’t even look at you, just laughs again. “couldn’t even pretend. literally couldn’t. like my body was rejecting her on instinct. just—shut off.” he shrugs, almost like he’s mocking himself. “guess it doesn’t work unless it’s you.”

your breath catches, his voice is quieter now. “feels like that’s just how i’m built now. like i’m wired for you.”

the air in the car feels suffocating suddenly. too hot. too heavy. you stare at him, lips parted, still clutching your thighs like they might hold you together.

he finally turns his head to look at you. “i’m sorry,” he says. “for everything.”

you don’t say anything. you’re not sure if you can.

he keeps going, like he has to spill it all now or combust “i fucked it up. i know. i made you think you were just—just some quick fuck i could forget.” he looks away again, jaw tight. “but you weren’t. you aren’t.”

you whisper, “rafe.”

“i know i don’t deserve you back,” he says, eyes locked on the dash now, voice brittle and tired. “but i couldn’t not come. you texted and my body moved before my brain could even think about it.”

he pauses, then meets your eyes again “why did you text me?”

you’re silent. the question hangs like fog between you. you can’t answer. when everything you’ve been trying to bury is now clawing its way up your throat.

you snap. you don’t mean to. not really. but something in your chest cracks under the weight of it all. the spiraling, the silence, the look on his face like he’s waiting to be told he’s the villain again, so it comes out like fire “fuck, yes—okay?!” your voice trembles. “i asked you here because i can’t stop thinking about you. you’re right. you’re right. you happy now?”

your words echo in the car like a gunshot. you don’t mean for them to sound so mean, but they do. they’re soaked in panic. guilt. that itchy kind of honesty that feels like peeling off skin.

rafe doesn’t flinch. he just looks at you. quiet. blinking slow. then “fuck…” his voice is low, almost stunned. “no.”

you pause, breathing shallow.

he shifts in his seat, looks like he’s about to break “i’m not happy,” he says. “you’re not happy, so why the fuck would i be?”

you look at him, eyes wide and glassy, trying to figure out what the hell that means. why it hurts so much. why it feels like he’s saying the things you didn’t even let yourself admit in your own head “i don’t…” your words falter. “i don’t know what to do, rafe.”

he watches you. you rub your hands over your face, voice cracking again. “nate’s nice. he’s—fuck, he really is. he’s good. he’s good to me. he doesn’t make me feel like I’m falling off the edge of something all the time—” you bite down the rest of it. you can’t look at rafe. not when the truth feels this raw on your tongue. you whisper, “i feel safe with him.”

rafe’s quiet. still. like he doesn’t want to move in case you disappear. then, softly “but you’re thinking about me anyway.”

you clench your jaw.

he lets out a bitter exhale, like it hurts. like it comforts him and kills him at once “that’s the worst part, isn’t it?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “you’ve got someone safe. someone sweet. someone who probably sees the world in you… but you still called me.”

you sink lower into the passenger seat, pressing your back into the headrest like you can melt away into the fabric, vanish, disappear from this moment and the thousand feelings clawing up your throat “i don’t know why i feel this way,” you whisper, almost ashamed to admit it, voice barely there. “it was supposed to be nothing. just a hookup.”

the word feels ugly now. cheap. you glance sideways at him—at the boy who ruined you by being the one person you never expected to need this much. and rafe—he laughs. it’s bitter, hollow, the kind of sound that’s almost not a laugh at all “yeah,” he mutters. “i know. that’s all i’m good for, right?”

your stomach sinks “rafe…”

but he won’t look at you now, eyes locked on the steering wheel, jaw tense, hands gripping his thighs like he’s keeping himself from combusting “i’m not nate,” he says, and his voice is low and clipped, like the words taste sour in his mouth. “i’m not sweet. i’m not safe. i’m not whatever the fuck he is. the guy who says all the right shit, the guy who’s never fucked up, who probably brings you flowers and tells you how ‘grateful’ he is just to breathe your air.”

you don’t say anything, because…well. he’s not wrong.

but then he turns, finally meeting your gaze, and something in his eyes is wrecked. vulnerabl in a way that makes you ache “i wanted to be,” he says. “for you.”

your heart twists “but you weren’t,” you say softly, not to hurt him, just to speak the truth. “you weren’t that for me, rafe. not then.”

he nods once. like he already knew. like he agrees “i know,” he says, voice rough. “i know i wasn’t. i didn’t know how. but fuck, i tried. i gave you my weekends. my time. i gave you me in every way i knew how. and yeah, i wasn’t perfect. but i never meant for it to feel like nothing.”

you flinch, because that’s what you told yourself over and over again to cope: that it was just sex. just tension. just a hookup. it had to be. anything more would’ve destroyed you. “you didn’t act like it meant anything,” you say.

and he looks at you like he’s about to cry “because i thought if i did,” he says slowly, “you’d run.”

you blink.

“i was scared, alright?” he adds. “scared i’d fuck it up. scared i wasn’t enough. and then nate came along, and he is enough. he’s everything i’m not. and when i saw you with him, i—fuck.” he exhales like he’s bleeding from the mouth “i wanted to tell you everything.”

you sit there frozen, hands in your lap, heart pounding like it wants out of your chest.

he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and broken and helpless “he gets to be with you now,” rafe says, softer. “he gets the soft you. the real you. he gets your mornings and your dates and your goddamn affection. and i’m the fuckup who got your body once and then ruined it.”

you’re staring at him now, eyes wide, throat dry “you think that’s all you gave me?” you ask quietly.

he looks at you. you’re shaking, just a little. you barely notice “i smoked my first cigarette with you,” you say. “you bought us shitty vodka and we got drunk in your truck and you told me i was your favorite person. you. i believed you.”

rafe’s expression changes—melts, softens, splits at the seams “you were,” he says hoarsely. “you are.”

you’re still breathing hard, lips parted like another thousand confessions are waiting behind your teeth “i don’t want to feel this way about you,” you whisper.

he nods, gaze never leaving yours “i don’t want you to either,” he replies. “not if it hurts. not if it makes you second guess someone who actually treats you the way you deserve.”

silence swallows the car. you both sit in it. soaked in guilt, nostalgia, pain. affection too deep to erase. tension that crackles like lightning through your skin. and still, it’s not enough to pull you apart. not yet. because you’re both still here. still staring. still wanting.

your voice is quiet. soft. like if you speak any louder, it’ll shatter the moment completely “you think things would be different in another life?”

his eyes flicker to yours, and something in his chest cracks open.

the heat off, windows slightly fogged, the kind of stillness between you that vibrates. everything outside is quiet. no headlights passing. no breeze. just the world on pause and rafe cameron staring at you like he’s seeing his future and his past at the same time.

he lets out a small, dry laugh, like it hurts to smile “another life, huh?” he mutters, leaning his head back against the seat, eyes still on yours. “fuck, yeah. in another life, i wouldn’t be such a fucking coward.”

your heart jumps at how easily that slipped out of him.

he swallows, slow and hard. then he looks away for a second, gathering his words like they’re scattered glass “in another life,” he continues, “i would’ve held your hand and told everyone you were mine. not just when no one was looking.”

you breathe in sharply, like it physically hit you

rafe glances at you again, a little sideways this time. “i wouldn’t have let you walk away thinking you were just…just a good time. cause you were never that. not to me.”

you blink fast, because your throat is tight now. everything is “you would’ve shown up?” you ask, voice so small, so unsure

he nods once“every time. no hesitation.”

your eyes search his, and it’s terrifying how raw he looks. how soft. it’s still rafe—still a little rough around the edges, still a mess—but there’s no mask right now. just him cracked wide open in front of you.

he keeps talking, more gentle now “i’d have taken you to dinner like a real date. made you wear something cute, even though you’d show up in shorts and still look like a fuckin’ dream. i’d have kissed you in front of everyone. picked you up from your house just so your dad knew who you were with.”

you laugh quietly, sad and sweet “he would’ve hated you.”

rafe smiles. a real one this time. a little crooked, a little broken “yeah,” he says, “but he would’ve known i loved you.”

your breath hitches.

he stares at you, and there’s a pause. a beat where you think maybe you’re both going to explode from all this tenderness sitting between you

“what about me?” you whisper. “what would i have done in another life?”

rafe’s eyes darken slightly, but not in a bad way. more like he’s imagining it—really seeing it “you’d be happy,” he says. “not confused. not torn up about some other guy. you’d have your own toothbrush at my place and my shirt on in the morning and your stupid little playlist on loop even when you’re not there.”

you smile, wet and full of ache “you remembered my playlist?”

“i still have it.”

silence again. you can’t look away. neither can he “i think about it sometimes,” you admit, voice thick now. “if we met at the right time. if you had been just a little less scared and i had been a little less in denial.”

he nods slowly, eyes softening further “we could’ve been fucking unstoppable.”

you laugh through your tears. “we’d probably still fight all the time.”

“yeah,” he smirks, “but it would’ve ended in sex or pancakes.”

“or both.”

he chuckles low in his throat.

“you’d have loved me properly, huh?” you say it like a question. like a hope.

he stares at you, gaze unmoving, deadly serious “i would’ve worshipped the fuck out of you.”

and that? that undoes you. you can’t speak. can’t breathe. because here he is, right in front of you—telling you everything you used to dream he’d say. and it’s too late. or maybe it’s not. maybe it never really was. maybe it’s just you, torn in two by the sweetness of what could’ve been and the pain of what is.

you sit there for a moment longer, both of you completely silent. completely undone.

just two people in the wrong life. staring like maybe if you look hard enough, you’ll fall into a better one.

you say it before you can think better of it. before shame wraps around your throat and drags you back under. your voice breaks, and it sounds nothing like the version of yourself you show to other people. not the confident one, not the funny one, not the one who can pretend things are fine when they’re clearly not. not the one nate sees. this one is real. cracked open and pleading

“i’m scared,” you whisper. “i don’t know what to do, rafe. help me. please.”

the moment the words leave your mouth, the silence in the car shifts. it’s no longer heavy. it’s fragile. breathless. like even the air knows something’s about to give.

rafe freezes. his eyes lock on yours like they’re made of glass and you’ve just shattered them.

you’ve never asked him for help before. not like this.

he blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ground himself. his jaw tightens, then loosens again. slowly, carefully, he reaches out—his hand hovering between you, waiting for permission.

“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “you don’t have to pick anything or anyone or—fuck, you don’t even have to explain it to me.”

his fingers barely graze your knee. grounding, warm “but i’m here,” he says. “i’m fucking here. and if you want me to help you, i will. no questions, no bullshit. just say it, and i’m yours.”

you look at him. god. his eyes. those eyes. like they were made to look at you like this. and maybe it’s not fair. maybe it’s selfish. maybe it’s cruel to nate and terrifying to you and dangerously close to everything you swore you wouldn’t do again. but it’s rafe.

and when he looks at you like that?it’s not just comfort. it’s not just lust. it’s not just old habits. it’s home.

so you nod, just a little. barely there.

his hand finds yours and holds it like it’s something precious. your voice cracks before you can even stop it, eyes dropping to your lap, hands still clasped in his like muscle memory. like instinct “nate will hate me,” you say, barely louder than a breath.

rafe squeezes your hand once, then lets go gently like he’s trying not to hurt you, even in the smallest way. his voice is tight when he says, “fuck. if you want nate, i won’t say anything. to anyone. that we met up tonight. i promise.”

you glance up at him. he’s not even looking at you. he’s staring out the windshield like it’s easier to pretend this is nothing.

he swallows hard and keeps going “if you’re happy,” he says, slower this time, voice hoarse, “i’m not standing in the way of that.”

you don’t even feel the tear slip until it lands on your thigh, soaking into the fabric of your oversized shirt. it surprises you—makes you laugh, but not like anything is funn

a sad little sound. fragile. worn “where’s the jealous rafe, hm?” you murmur, turning toward him. “what’d you do to my rafe?”

his head turns slowly. eyes meeting yours,blue and broken and still somehow soft. his mouth twitches. not a smile. not even close “you did this to your rafe, actually,” he says.

and god it hits like a bruise. like a confession. like the truth he’s been carrying around since the night everything went to hell. he looks like he means it. like every word sits heavy in his chest. you did this.

you softened him. made him feel safe. made him care so deeply it bled out in every wrong way. and now you’re here, both sitting in the wreckage, both pretending you aren’t shaking.

he shifts a little in his seat, like he’s trying to keep it together. he looks at you a second longer, like he’s trying to memorize you. maybe he is. maybe he’s scared this is the last time you’ll ever sit beside him like this.

but then he blinks, exhales through his nose, shakes his head a little—like he’s brushing off the heaviness for just a second—and lets out a soft, strained laugh.

“remember when you got so drunk,” he says, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth, “that i had to carry you in my arms from topper’s house all the way to yours?”

your mouth drops open, a short laugh escaping before you cover your face with both hands, half mortified, half caught in the memory.

“oh my god,” you groan, peeking at him between your fingers. “four streets, rafe. four fucking streets.”

he grins fully now, and it’s the first time tonight it doesn’t look like it hurts. “you kept singing that one taylor swift song the whole time.”

“don’t,” you say, already laughing.

“you were slurring it,” he continues, ignoring your protests, “and you tried to make me dance with you on the sidewalk in front of the old lady’s porch. what was her name again—mrs. walker?”

“mrs. walker hates me now, thanks to you,” you laugh, voice high and shaking, the memory hitting you like warm light, like comfort, like home

“nah,” he says, eyes twinkling, “she hated me. said i was a bad influence.”

you’re both laughing quietly now, and it’s easier than anything else tonight “you carried me the whole way,” you say after a beat, soft again, quieter. “you didn’t let me walk.”

rafe shrugs, leaning back a little. “wasn’t gonna let you fall.”

and he means it. he’s always meant it. even when he did.

he leans back in the seat, arms draped lazily over the wheel, head tilted just enough to watch you through the soft dark. his voice is low, warm like summer air,“remember that time we snuck into the country club pool after hours? and you made me swear we wouldn’t get caught?”

you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “you cannonballed in and screamed ‘yolo’ so loud i’m pretty sure they still have you on some kind of watchlist.”

he grins. “but you were the one who did a backflip off the diving board and hit the water like a belly flop.”

you slap his arm lightly. “i was dared. by you.”

he smirks. “and you lost your earring in the pool.”

you sigh dramatically. “my favorite one.”

“and i stayed in the water for like an hour looking for it.”

you go quiet for a second. you remember. you remember the way he swam around in circles like a madman, hands brushing the bottom, even after you told him to let it go. his hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes red from chlorine, stubborn as hell because he hated seeing you sad over something he dared you to do.

“you’re trying to make me sad?” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

his smile falters just enough “no,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “i’m trying to remind you what we were. what we… are, maybe. even if we’re not supposed to be.”

his hand drifts lazily from the steering wheel, fingers brushing the leather in quiet rhythm as if thinking through the silence, then he turns slightly in his seat, facing you full on now. there’s something painfully earnest in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorize you in this exact second.

“do you…” he starts slow, voice low and rough like a question he’s afraid to hear the answer to, “do you feel loved with him?”

his brows lift just slightly, trying to read you.

you don’t respond. you don’t even breathe at first.

so he nudges your cheek with the tip of his finger, soft and teasing, trying to make it lighter than it is. “c’mooon,” he murmurs, the ghost of a smirk forming. “promise i won’t be mad, baby. scouts honor.”

but you don’t smile back. you sit there, fingers picking at a loose thread on your shorts, lips parting then closing again.

finally, you speak. “i should.”

his expression falters.

“i should feel loved,” you repeat. “he does everything right. he tells me i’m pretty. he brings me flowers. he—he listens. and he remembers the little things. like how i hate cinnamon and how i like my tea.”

he waits.

“but i don’t know what i feel,” you admit, voice thinner now. “he’s nice and he’s sweet and… i like him. i do.”

“but,” he presses softly.

your chest tightens. the silence between you swells “but he doesn’t have that.” you glance at him.

his brows furrow. “that what?”

you swallow. “what we had.”

he holds your gaze, something wild and gentle all at once flashing in his eyes. “what we had?” he echoes, a bitter trace of hope wrapped around the words.

you nod slowly. “that fire.”

and when you say it—that fire—it’s like something erupts between the two of you, invisible and burning

you both feel it. the memory of it coils between your bodies in the car, thick and electric. every time you kissed like you’d die if you didn’t. the yelling. the laughing. the late night drives to nowhere. the silence that was never really silence because it always felt safe with him. the way he’d call you “baby”, like you were a secret no one else got to have

nate never looked at you like rafe does. like you hung the goddamn stars.

“that fire,” rafe repeats under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. he looks back at the windshield, nodding slightly like he’s letting the truth settle.

you think maybe he’s going to say something else, but he just sits there. until he murmurs, “that fire ruined me, you know.”

your head turns toward him, breath caught.

his voice is raw now, honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. “after you, everything felt cold. like nothing was alive unless it was with you. even when we were just ‘friends’—i mean, fuck, i was in so deep, it didn’t matter what we called it.” he laughs weakly. “and then i blew it all up like an idiot. like i always do.”

you don’t say anything, but your hand is shaking in your lap.

his voice softens again. “but i want it back. you. even if it hurts. even if you pick nate tomorrow morning and block my number again. i’ll still want it.”

you blink, and another tear slips without warning. neither of you wipe it this time

your voice trembles slightly when you ask it, eyes fixed out the windshield like maybe if you don’t look at him, the words will come out easier “you think we were more in love with the world?”

rafe furrows his brows, the question catching him off guard. he turns to face you again, lips parting just a bit as if searching for meaning behind your words. “what do you mean?”

you inhale sharply, “i mean…” your voice is small now, cracking at the edges. “we were always so scared. you and me. scared of what people would say. scared of looking stupid. i didn’t say anything back then because—because i was terrified of you not feeling the same way, of ruining whatever we had.”

you finally look at him, watery eyes sharp with emotion “and you?” you say, voice rising a little now, “you were scared of rejection too, but also scared of fucking up your fucking reputation.”

he looks like he wants to say something, but you keep going.

“you cared so much about how people saw you, rafe. the image. the name. the attitude. and me?” you laugh, bitter and breathless. “i was just the girl you spent time with but never called yours. not in public. not out loud. we were just… hidden. behind closed doors. all heat and touch and feelings that neither of us had the guts to name.”

you look down at your hands.

“so yeah, maybe we weren’t in love with each other,” you whisper. “maybe we were just in love with what it could be if the world didn’t matter.”

he swallows hard, his jaw tight as he processes your words.

you’ve never spoken to him like this before. not with the ache so sharp in your chest, not with your voice so broken around the truth.

you sniff, wiping under your eye. “and i keep thinking about it, y’know? how maybe if we weren’t so fucking scared, we would’ve had a shot. if you weren’t so wrapped up in being rafe cameron—if i wasn’t so scared of needing someone who could leave just as fast as he came.”

rafe leans back in his seat, eyes still glued to you. he looks older suddenly, more tired. wrecked, even.

he exhales slowly. “you think that’s all it was?”

you blink. “what?”

“reputation,” he says. “fear. appearances.”

you hesitate. “doesn’t it feel like that now?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, he just looks at you—really looks at you—and for once, there’s no smugness, no mask, no front.

just him. your rafe. he’s quiet for a long time after that. so long, you almost regret saying anything at all.

you’re about to open your mouth to take it back, to laugh it off, brush over it, pretend none of this ever left your lips, when his gaze finally lifts. and lands on you.

hard. heavy. he really looks at you this time. like he’s peeling back skin, not just clothes. like he’s not seeing the girl in a too big t-hirt and slippers, but the girl who’s haunted him every fucking night for months. the girl he sees in cigarette smoke and ocean waves and his own fucking dreams

you feel it in your chest when he does it, how his stare strips you down, not with lust, but with history.

and then, low, rough, nothing like the boys you’ve been around lately, he says it “can you fight fire with fire, baby?”

your heart drops.

he tilts his head, tongue grazing his bottom lip. “’cause that’s what this is, right? what we were. what we are. fire.”

you don’t speak. can’t.

his voice softens, but only just “you said nate doesn’t have that.” a beat “you said we had fire.”

you nod slowly, throat tight. “yeah.”

he shifts closer, one arm tapping his thigh with that restless energy you remember so well. he’s nervous. but trying not to be.

“then tell me,” he whispers. “tell me if you think that fire can burn everything else down. the fear. the guilt. the perfect boy waiting for you to text back. tell me if it’s worth it.”

you look at him, and god, his eyes. those fucking eyes.

“can you fight fire with fire, baby?” he repeats, a little softer now.

he leans in like he might kiss you, but stops just short—close enough to feel him, but far enough that you’ll have to make the choice.

and maybe he’s right. maybe that’s all you ever were. too much heat in a world that wanted cold. too much flame for a place built out of reputation and rules.

you breathe, heavy and uneven, as your mouth parts but no words come. just that look. that ache.

he’s still waiting. so are you. you whisper it before you even realize it left your mouth “I hope… in time I can just love, freely.”

the words hang in the air, delicate and bruised. not hopeful, not hopeless. just real.

and for once, rafe doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

he breathes it in instead. your honesty, your ache, the way your voice cracked a little on free. he nods, slow. like he gets it. like he’s been trying to get there, too.

his fingers tap against his thigh again, but gentler this time. almost nervously. and when he speaks, it’s not sharp or sarcastic or layered in all that old pride he used to wear like armor.

it’s just soft, scared “I hope in time…” he looks at you, really looks at you again, the way he always does right before he says something you’ll never forget “…we can love each other freely.”

you don’t even blink.

he exhales like the words cost him something. like they gave him something back, too.

you stare at him—this boy who’s hurt you, wanted you, feared you, missed you.

this boy who always shows up when he shouldn’t. this boy who knows the worst parts of you and still—still—looks at you like he’d burn it all down just to hear you laugh.

you shift slightly in your seat, knees pulled up, hands knotted in your lap, the fabric of your oversized tee wrinkling with the motion. your throat feels raw.

he’s still watching. and for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s asking you to choose. just…to feel. to be.

after that, you decided you should go home. all you wanted to do was sleep.

did you sleep? nope. you laid in bed, eyes burning in the dark, every fiber of your body heavy with exhaustion and still, your mind wouldn’t shut up. you kept ignoring topper’s texts, and everyone else’s too. you didn’t even read them. couldn’t.

you just kept thinking. about nate. and rafe. and how it’s not supposed to be this hard. you didn’t want to break nate’s heart. he’s so good. so golden. he says what he means. makes you feel like someone easy to love, not this walking storm of overthinking and damage and what ifs.

he’s gentle hands and easy smiles. not a single sharp edge.

but rafe…rafe feels like—you can’t even describe it. like home? but no, not really. home doesn’t scare the shit out of you.

like fire? too cliche. and not the right kind. rafe doesn’t burn you to ash, he scorches everything else around you, and you let him.

rafe feels like the one person who’s ever really seen you. not the dressed up version. not the smart answer or the curated laugh or the quiet polite thing you sometimes turn yourself into around other people.

he saw the mess. the ugly. the selfish. the insecure. he saw your bare skin and your worst moods and your clumsy love and your fears—he didn’t run. not until you both got scared.

you twist under the sheets and flip your pillow for the third time in twenty minutes. stare at the ceiling like it might offer a decision.

nate deserves more than this confusion.

more than a girlfriend who kissed her past in a parked car hours ago and still hasn’t decided what to do about it.

but rafe….rafe fucking cameron. you hate how much you still want him. how much he still makes you feel. how the smallest flicker in his voice changes everything in your chest.

you don’t know if it’s love. you don’t know if it’s trauma. you don’t know if it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had. but you know it’s not nothing.

with rafe…it’s free. it always was, even when it felt like it wasn’t. even when you two danced around each other like you were both one wrong word away from setting fire to the whole thing. even when it ended before it ever had a name.

it could be free again. maybe. maybe in another life.

one where you weren’t scared of the way he looked at you. one where he didn’t care so much about how others saw him. one where you didn’t waste all that time pretending it didn’t matter—when all it ever did was matter.

you imagine it sometimes. you can’t help it.

that version of you walking through the grocery store with him, fingers laced, no need to pull away when someone you know walks by. his lips pressed to the side of your neck when he’s had too much wine, both of you laughing over something that isn’t even funny anymore. waking up beside him with sunlight warming your face, no guilt in your chest. no secrets. no ifs or buts or maybes. just love. just him.

you blink at the ceiling, your chest aching under the weight of all the things you’ve never said out loud. how much you wanted to believe the timing didn’t matter.

how much you lied when you said it was just a hook up. how much it destroyed you to see him with brianna, even if he never touched her like he touched you.

it could’ve been clean, maybe. maybe if you hadn’t been so young. maybe if he hadn’t been so lost. maybe if you both weren’t so good at pretending you didn’t care when your eyes said everything.

but this life? this one is messy. you’re dating nate. rafe is—fuck. rafe is rafe.

and no matter how much your heart aches at the idea of “what if,” you know it doesn’t change where you are right now.

stuck in a storm of feelings that don’t make sense. still thinking about a boy who said, “i hope in time we can love each other free.”

and maybe that time just hasn’t come yet. maybe it never will. maybe there won’t be a time when it’s clean or easy or feels like the right thing instead of the selfish one. and that’s what scares you. because life is about taking chances, right?

so why can’t you take this one? why does it feel so impossible to just make the choice, to lean into what you want instead of what looks better on paper?

if you choose nate—god, nate. his patience, his soft hands, the way he opens the passenger door like it’s instinct. he’d step down. he would. he might be heartbroken, might cry in his car, might never text you again, but he wouldn’t beg. he wouldn’t call you names. he wouldn’t ask for more than you could give. he’s not like that. he’d let you go, because he’s too good not to.

and if you choose rafe—that’s the real kicker, isn’t it? you already did, once. chose him in secret, in silence, in the way your body moved without permission every time he was near.

and back then, it still ended in fire.

but maybe he’s different now. maybe you are too. you think about how he looked at you last night—like he’d burn down the whole world if you asked him to.

how he said he wouldn’t tell a soul if you wanted nate. how he didn’t kiss you. didn’t push. he used to be reckless. last night…he was careful. with you.

and still, you’re frozen. you tell yourself you’re just scared to hurt nate. and you are.

but the truth is, you’re terrified that you’ll choose rafe, give him your full heart this time, and he’ll still leave. not for another girl—no, not that. just for himself. because that’s what he does when it gets too close. he runs.

you sigh, flipping your phone over on the pillow beside you, screen black, texts still unread. you try to convince yourself nate would understand. he probably would. he’s gentle like that.

but that doesn’t make it easier. what if neither of them is the answer? what if you’re the one who needs fixing?

you let out a bitter laugh, palms pressed into your eyes. because it’s just like him to waltz back in with that crooked mouth and those eyes that know too much—and fuck everything up all over again. because you let him. because part of you wants to. and that’s what makes you the worst kind of selfish. not the reckless kind. not the mean kind. the kind who’s too scared to be happy

rafe is no better than you. it’s 4:02am and is he sleeping? no fucking way.

he’s laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it’s gonna give him answers, one arm flung over his head, the other pressed against his chest like he’s trying to feel his own heartbeat. like if he listens close enough, maybe it’ll tell him what to do

but all it does is ache. his room’s dark, silent except for the occasional creak of the ceiling fan and the distant waves crashing behind tannyhill. but in his head, it’s anything but quiet.

he keeps playing the night over, rewinding, replaying, like some messed up movie scene. your face. the way your voice cracked when you said help me please. how your fingers trembled just slightly on your thighs. how your eyes didn’t leave his once—not once.

he should be content with that, right? some part of you still wants him. but all he can think is you deserve better.

he knows it. fuck, he knows it.

you deserve better than a guy who left without warning. a guy who couldn’t even tell you why because even he didn’t really know. only that it felt too good, too big, too dangerous. like he might actually be capable of ruining something pure again.

you were the first thing that ever felt safe. and that scared the shit out of him.

so he did what he always does. he self sabotaged.

and now, he keeps wondering if maybe he could be that better for you. if he just wasn’t so scared. if he wasn’t still wrestling with the shadow of who he used to be and the man he’s trying to become.

it’s not about being clean—not entirely. he hasn’t touched a line in a long time, hasn’t gone back to that darkness, but that doesn’t mean he’s whole.

he’s still selfish. still wounded. still obsessed with the idea of you and him in another life where the world wasn’t watching, where expectations didn’t chain you both to bullshit roles.

he wants that life so bad it burns.

the one where he’s not rafe cameron: tannyhill’s golden fuck up. and you’re not the girl caught in the middle, afraid to be seen loving him too loud.

in that life, you laugh in the open. in that life, you kiss in daylight. in that life, he’s not scared to be exactly who you need.

but it’s not that life. it’s this one. where you’re still with nate, and he’s still paying for mistakes he hasn’t even made yet.

rafe turns over, burying his face into the pillow and groaning into it.

he wants to text you. call you. do something stupid like show up at your house with flowers from the gas station and a half baked apology.

but he doesn’t. because for once, he knows that might do more harm than good. so he waits. and hopes.

and thinks maybe—just maybe—if there’s a version of the world where love is brave and clean and free…it’ll look something like you.

and him, without all the in betweens.

but still, he hopes.some twisted, stubborn part of him still fucking hopes.

hopes that if you choose love..real love, the kind that strips you down, breaks you open, burns you alive and somehow puts you back together again…that love will look like him.

and you. together.

not nate. not some perfectly put together, gentle boy with a sweet laugh and a reliable car and parents who probably love him in the right way.

not the world, either. not safety. not ease. not what everyone expects you to choose.

but him. the one thing you swore you wouldn’t come back to. but still did. he thinks about your text. no punctuation. no explanation. you didn’t need to give one.

and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t mean everything. because deep down, rafe doesn’t want to just be someone you remember fondly at night when the room is too quiet. he doesn’t want to be the ghost you almost loved. he wants to be chosen. on purpose. in spite of everything.

he knows that doesn’t make him noble. doesn’t make him good. but it’s honest. and at least it’s his. so yeah—he hopes.

he hopes you don’t want the version of love that looks good on paper, that makes sense to your friends, your parents, your carefully folded life. he hopes you want the kind of love that leaves marks. the kind that comes with broken glass and bruised hearts and whispered promises between parked cars at 3am.

because that’s the only kind he’s ever known. and the only kind he knows how to give you.

so if you choose love—if you really, really choose it—he hopes it looks like him.

not the best version of him, not the cleaned up, crowd approved version. just him. raw and fucked and trying anyway.

he turns his head into the pillow and finally lets the thought sit on his chest like weight:

if you choose love…please let it be him.

rafe’s phone dings. one buzz. sharp in the quiet, slicing through the dark like it knows what it’s doing. like it knows he’s been wide awake all night, laying flat on his back, eyes on the ceiling, your name tangled in every single thought.

he barely moves when he grabs it, just tilts the screen toward his face.

topper: you met up with her didn’t you

his heart skips. fucking skips.

rafe: how the fuck did you know

the bubble pops up instantly. topper’s probably been waiting for this.

topper: she texted me “i’m about to do something” and then turned off her phone. you didn’t answer the whole time. it wasn’t hard to figure out

rafe exhales through his nose, thumb tapping, deleting, typing again.

rafe: yeah. she texted me. i didn’t plan it

topper: you never do, but you care about her. dude. don’t fuck this up again

rafe stares at the screen, jaw locked. his stomach turns. not in the sick way. in the “fuck, he’s right” kind of way.

rafe: i already fucked it up but she texted me. that has to mean something right?

topper doesn’t reply right away. rafe sets the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling again. heart thumping.

she called me. she called me. she called me.

he says it in his head like a prayer.

because even if it’s the last time,

even if it’s wrong, even if you go back to nate—it still meant something. it had to.

cause in rafe’s mind, even if you choose nate—be with him for real, love him out loud and without fear, maybe even marry him one day, wear white and cry at the altar.

maybe you’ll have a home with warm lights and picture frames and messy counters.

maybe a kid with nate’s soft eyes and your stubborn little mouth. maybe a life so sweet it makes you forget rafe’s name when you whisper love.

but.

but. even if you do all that,even if you never say his name again—rafe knows something now.

you texted him. you chose him, even if just for one night. one moment. one 30 minute car ride that smelled like perfume and regret.

and maybe that’s all he’ll ever get. maybe he’ll always be the dumbass who couldn’t give you clean, couldn’t give you calm. maybe he’ll always be the fuckup.

but for once—for the very first time in his life—he meant something. to someone. and not just anyone. to you.

you, with your fire and your mouth and your guilt. you, who never needed saving but still let him be near. you, who made everything feel stupid and sacred at the same time.

and yeah, it’ll fucking destroy him if you go back to nate. but he’ll take that destruction like a medal. he’ll carry it until it bruises his ribs and caves his chest in.

because now he knows. he meant something. one time. to you. and that…that might have to be enough. for him, at least.

a week later. you haven’t talked to rafe since that night. since the 30 minutes that rewired your entire fucking brain. since the confession, the almosts, the eye contact that should’ve meant nothing—but felt like everything.

and now…now you’re in nate’s car. he’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting near your thigh, fingers twitching like he wants to hold you but won’t push. he’s been perfect. sweet. too fucking sweet.

he got you flowers two days ago just because he saw you sad on facetime. he took you to that stupid thrift market you always talk about. he asked your coffee order and actually remembered it.

he’s been trying. and it should be enough. you should want this.

you so should.

but god, your body feels like it’s betraying you every second. you keep thinking about the wrong hands. the wrong voice. the wrong boy.

or maybe not wrong. maybe just… not safe.

“hey,” nate says, his voice gentle but worried. again. you blink out the window, your cheek against the glass, pretending to nap but you’re not fooling anyone

“you okay?” you don’t answer. he waits five seconds. then says again, “you okay?”

you suck in a breath and close your eyes harder like that’ll drown it all out. it doesn’t.

he asks again. a third time “baby, are you okay?”

you almost say yes. you almost lie. but the fourth time he asks, when you don’t answer right away, he gently squeezes your thigh and whispers, “talk to me, please. this is the fifth time i’ve asked.”

that’s when you snap. not angry. just… full. overwhelmed. tipping over the edge “fuck, nate,” you mutter, voice raw and thin, “i don’t fucking know, okay?”

he doesn’t respond at first. so you keep going “i don’t know. i’m trying, i am, but i don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me. you’re—god, you’re amazing, nate. you’re nice and easy and thoughtful and i should love you, i should—but i don’t even know if i can.”

he stares at the road, lips pressed in a flat line, his hand frozen.

you exhale hard, tears stinging but not falling. you don’t even look at him when you whisper, “i’m sorry.”

you’re not sure if you mean for this moment or for something else entirely. for rafe. for meeting up. for thinking about it every night since.

nate nods once, quietly “thank you for telling me,” he says after a while, so calm it cuts deeper “even if it hurts.”

and fuck. you wish it would’ve been easier. you wish nate was the right kind of chaos. you wish his kiss tasted like fire. you wish his hands made your spine ache the way rafe’s name does. but they don’t.

and now you both know.

he pulls the car over. just… turns the wheel slowly and lets the tires crunch against gravel as the car rolls to a stop on the side of the empty road. it’s quiet. humid air pressing against the windows. music still playing low, some soft indie song he probably put on for your sake.

you feel your stomach twist before he even says anything.

“you, uh…” he starts, voice gentle but thick in his throat. he won’t look at you. just stares straight ahead, fingers flexing on the wheel “you still want him. rafe. don’t you?”

you inhale like you’re about to answer, but nothing comes out. you blink hard. your lips part, then shut. you hate this. you hate hurting him.

“i…” your voice cracks. “i don’t know what i want, nate.”

and it’s the truth. you’re drowning in it. the guilt, the confusion, the ache. nate is looking at you now. not angry. not cold. just… trying.

“i’m fucking scared, okay?” you whisper. “i don’t know how to make the right choice, i don’t even know if there is one. and it’s not fair to you and i know that, and i’m sorry. i swear to god i’m sorry.”

he nods slowly, looking down at his lap “scared of what?” he asks. “what is it about him that makes you scared?”

you shrug, your nails digging into the edge of your seat “everything,” you whisper. “he feels like fire and falling and all the things that could ruin me. and you—you’re good. you’re safe. and maybe that’s why i can’t stop comparing.”

“so you’re scared of me… not being enough?”

you shake your head “no, nate. you are enough. you’re more than enough. i’m the one who’s not.”

he sighs, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. thinking “i want to be mad at you,” he admits after a moment. “i really do. i want to be the guy who slams the door and says fuck you and never looks back.” he looks over at you. “but i care too much.”

your chest aches.

“you didn’t mean to hurt me,” he says. “and that’s why it hurts even more.”

a silence stretches out, thick and pulsing. you wipe under your eyes, not even realizing you’d been crying again.

nate sighs and finally, finally reaches over and takes your hand—just for a second “i hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says softly. “even if it’s not me.”

and just like that—your throat closes. because you never deserved someone like nate. but he still gave you permission to leave. and now… now you have to figure out if you’re brave enough to take it.

you swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper “nate… what do i do?”

he looks over at you, eyes soft but tired “i don’t know,” he admits, voice low. “what feels right, i guess.” there’s a pause before he lets out a bitter laugh “honestly, i should’ve known you’d still want him.”

you blink, heart sinking.

“i mean,” he continues, “the first night we met he came over to that bench and acted like a maniac. totally reckless, like he was trying to stake his claim or something.”

he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but you catch the way his jaw tightens “it was clear you weren’t mine to take.”

you don’t answer right away. you stare out the window, trying to figure out what feels right when everything inside you feels so tangled.

“maybe,” you whisper, “maybe i’m just too scared to admit what i want.”

nate nods, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips “i’m glad you said something, you know. it’s still early. doesn’t hurt that much, y’know?”

you let out a breathy laugh, half amused, half bitter “oh wow, really comforting for both of us,” you say, shaking your head, “just huffing out the drama.”

nate huffs a laugh, shaking his head “yeah, you’re definitely in your adele era, huh?”

you roll your eyes with a smirk,“haha, real funny. sarcasm’s your love language, huh?”

he grins,“probably would be, if i had that much to laugh about.”

you raise an eyebrow, “wow, real dramatic. you’re full of surprises today.”

nate shrugs,“me??? you’re the one that dropped that bomb on me.”

you sigh,“yeah… really sorry about that.”

he gives you a small smile,“nah, you’re good. i get it.”

there’s a quiet pause, the hum of the engine filling the space between you “look,” he says softly, “whatever happens, i just want you to be happy. even if it’s not with me.”

you bite your lip, hesitant “i should talk to rafe, shouldn’t i?”

nate glances over at you, a little unsure but trying to help. “i uh… i could take you to his place, y’know…” he trails off, like he’s not totally sure if that’s a good idea, but he wants to be there for you either way.

nate blinks, then grins wide, a teasing spark in his eyes “waaaait—is that why we didn’t do anything? and we were just ‘taking our time’?”

you flush a little, trying to hide the small smile tugging at your lip “oh, shut up.”

nate laughs, shaking his head “oh my god, it was because of rafe, wasn’t it?” he’s laughing now, but it’s warm, easy, like he’s trying to make light of the tension between you

you sigh, a little defeated but amused “okay, you got me there. i’ll give you that.”

nate’s grin just widens like he won “figured as much.”

you twist in your seat a little, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around them. it’s quiet for a moment. not awkward quiet, just… heavy. everything’s kind of sunken in now, and there’s a weird comfort in how nate’s still here. still being nate. still kind, still making jokes even when you sort of crushed him

you glance at him. he doesn’t look mad. just maybe a little… sad. but the gentle kind. the kind that says he already prepared himself for this possibility. maybe he’s been seeing it in your eyes the whole time.

you clear your throat. “you know what?”

he glances at you, hand still resting on the steering wheel “yeah?”

you breathe in through your nose. your voice isn’t shaky, but it’s definitely unsure “yeah. take me to tannyhill.” you nod, more to yourself than to him “please.”

he raises his eyebrows, nodding slowly “okay…” he breathes. “fuck. we’re doing this.”

you both kind of laugh. not really because it’s funny, but because it’s insane. the way this night turned out, the way your head’s been spinning for a week straight. the fact that you’re about to show up at rafe cameron’s house like you didn’t spend seven days avoiding your own reflection.

nate signals left “you sure you wanna do this now? it’s like… late late.”

you nod. “it’s always late when it comes to him.”

he hums. doesn’t argue.

you watch the night roll by outside the car window. the way the streetlights flicker across. just barely threw a hoodie over the big shirt. you didn’t even check if your hair looked okay or if you had mascara under your eyes. you didn’t even care. and that’s what scares you most. because every time it’s rafe, you lose your pride. your balance. your logic. but god, it’s him. and you miss him. and no matter what you try to do to smother it, it leaks out of you like light through your ribs.

“you look nervous,” nate says softly.

“i am,” you admit.

“you shouldn’t be.”

“i feel like i’m about to jump into a volcano.”

“well,” he chuckles, “at least you’re doing it in slippers.”

you snort, head tipping back against the seat “thanks for being cool about this.”

he shrugs. “i’m not cool. i’m coping. difference.”

you look at him, eyes soft “seriously.”

he glances at you, and this time it’s warmer. “you’re welcome.”

by the time you turn onto the familiar gravel road to tannyhill, your stomach is killing you. not physically—just that ache of what the fuck am i doing and what if he slams the door in my face. what if he doesn’t even answer. what if you misread everything, what if last week was just nostalgia and desperation and loneliness?

you’re chewing your thumb, pulse racing in your neck. nate slows the car near the gate. you freeze.

he looks at you. “i can turn around right now if you want. we can pretend this never happened.”

you inhale deep. really deep. then exhale, shaky “no,” you murmur. “i have to know.”

he nods again, slow “okay then.”

he drives the car past the gate. tannyhill looks the same. porch light on. one window glowing upstairs—his room. it’s like time stopped here even if you didn’t.

nate parks. you don’t move right away.

he glances at you and raises an eyebrow “go on.”

you lick your lips. “fuck.”

he grins. “yeah. fuck.”

you unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers trembling just a little “thank you,” you say one more time, hand on the door handle.

“go get your boy,” nate says, soft and without bitterness.

you step out, shutting the door quietly behind you. it’s so still here. the kind of still that makes you feel every breath and every heartbeat in your throat. you walk up the porch steps slowly. your hand hesitates on the door for a second before you knock.

not loud. just enough.

you wait. and wait.

then the porch light flickers. you hear the sound of a lock shifting, the slow creak of a door being pulled open.

rafe stands there in gray sweatpants, a white tank, and sleepy eyes that still go wide when they land on you. his hair’s a mess, and he looks like he hasn’t slept either.

he blinks.

“…hey.” you breathe. god, you didn’t even realize how much you needed to see him.

“hey.” he doesn’t move. doesn’t say anything for a second. then “you—uh…you wanna come in?”

you nod.

he steps aside and lets you walk in. you don’t get far, just inside the door before you stop and turn. he’s still looking at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.

“you weren’t sleeping,” you say.

“wasn’t,” he confirms.

“me neither.”

“figured.” he gestures toward the living room, and you both sit, facing each other. the silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s charged. like everything’s sitting on the edge of a sentence.

finally, he says it “what made you come?”

you chew your lip. “i don’t know. i think i just… could feel you thinking about me.”

he nods slowly, chest rising “i was.”

your hands are in your lap, fidgeting “i told nate.”

his head lifts slightly “you did?”

“mhm.”

“how’d he take it?”

“better than i would’ve.”

he breathes out a laugh through his nose “course he did. that guy’s an angel.”

you pause. then say “i didn’t come here for a decision, rafe.”

he nods. “i didn’t expect one.”

you shift closer “i came here because… it doesn’t feel right unless i talk to you.”

he swallows hard. you can see it in his throat “you always had that effect on me,” he says.

“what effect?”

“like no one else existed.”

you smile. a small one “you said that before.”

“i meant it then, too.”

you shift in your seat, looking at the floor for a second. god, everything’s swimming in your chest. the nerves, the adrenaline, the guilt, the ache you’ve been trying to ignore all week. and rafe’s just there—watching you like you hung the damn moon and forgot to tell him.

your voice is barely above a whisper when it comes out “i… fuck,” you laugh a little, mostly at yourself. “i basically made my ex, now, drive me here. to you.”

rafe’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt. you go on, fumbling with your sleeves “i feel like it wasn’t fair to him. not really. because—” you breathe“—because i want you, rafe.”

he blinks.

you look at him, eyes wide and raw and shimmering “i don’t know why, okay? i mean, you kinda fucked me up—”he winces a little. “but i still… for some reason… i want you.”

he exhales slowly, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. he’s quiet for a second, running a hand down his face before letting it fall back between his legs.

then he looks at you. really looks at you. like his eyes could touch you “you think i don’t want you?” his voice cracks a little “you think i’ve been sleeping since that night? you think i haven’t thought about every word you said—how you looked at me like i was yours again?”

you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes.

rafe swallows, voice low and hoarse “you were always it for me. even when we were friends, even when you hated me. i still fucking—i still saw you in everything. every fucking mistake i made. every time i lied, every time i drank too much, every time i couldn’t sleep. it was always you, it’s always been you.”

your heart thuds against your ribs. your throat tightens.

“i used to think maybe i ruined us,” he says, voice trembling slightly, “but then i realized we both were scared. scared of wanting it too much. scared of what it’d cost. and it did cost us. but god i’d pay it again just to sit here like this. with you looking at me like you still want me.”

your lips part, shaky breath leaving them. you don’t even know when your eyes got glassy.

“i’m not proud of how i handled us,” he adds, “but i never stopped thinking about what it would’ve been like if we got it right. if we were brave. if we—”

you lean forward fast, cutting him off with your mouth on his. it’s soft, but desperate. your hands cupping his jaw, your lips moving against his like he’s home and you’re starving for it. like if you keep kissing him, maybe it’ll make sense. maybe the ache will finally quiet.

rafe freezes for half a second—just stunned. then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you tight enough. his hands grip your waist, dragging you closer like he can’t get enough of you. like he’s needed this for so long he forgot how to breathe without it.

your lips break only for a second, your forehead pressing to his. you whisper, “i don’t know what i’m doing.”

and he whispers back, voice thick “we’ll figure it out. just don’t leave.”

your breath catches against his, forehead pressed to his, eyes barely open. everything’s trembling..your voice, your fingers, the fragile hope in your chest you swore you’d buried.

but still, you say it “promise you won’t leave first.”

it’s not a demand. it’s a plea. like you need something—anything—to hold on to. something solid. something real. because your heart can’t afford to be shattered again, not by him, not when he’s the only thing in this goddamn world that’s ever felt like it could maybe be enough.

rafe’s lips part, his thumb brushing your jaw, his eyes scanning yours like he’s reading a secret you haven’t even told him yet.

his voice is hoarse when he answers “i won’t,” he says. “baby, i won’t leave. not unless you make me.”

your lashes flutter, throat tightening, and you hate that your body relaxes—just a little—at those words. like it believes him before your mind catches up.

“you mean it?” you breathe.

he nods. slowly. surely “yeah. i mean it. i’m not gonna walk away this time. i’ve done enough of that.”

he shifts, one of his hands sliding to hold yours, fingers intertwining like they always used to—like they’re still learning each other again “and if you get scared,” he adds, softer now “just tell me. i’ll stay. even if you run, even if you push me away again, i’ll stay.”

you’re quiet for a moment, staring down at your joined hands, heart beating too loud in your ears. it hurts how much you want to believe him. how badly you want it to work, to mean something this time.

“don’t lie to me,” you whisper. “please don’t lie.”

rafe squeezes your hand gently “i’m not,” he says. “i swear, i’m not lying. i haven’t lied to you once since that night on your street corner.”

that makes you laugh. just a little. it’s watery and quiet, but it’s real. you shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. your lips are still kiss bruised. your heart is still in his hands.

“what the fuck are we doing, rafe?” you ask, voice barely there.

he smiles. tired. small. real “something reckless,” he says. “something that might ruin us again.”

you nod “yeah.”

“but it might save us too,” he murmurs. “if we let it.”

you smile. soft. shy. the kind of smile that curls up slow and hesitant, like it’s been waiting its whole life to be let out again. your eyes search his—still scared, still unsure, but not running anymore.

your voice is quiet when you ask it, almost like it’s too delicate to say out loud “are we… are we finally free?”

rafe’s heart stutters in his chest. not in panic. not in fear. but something something like peace.

he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles—so fucking gentle it makes your stomach twist.

“let me take you on a date,” he whispers. “please.” his eyes don’t leave yours when he says it. there’s no game this time. no deflection. no pride “not some late night backseat shit,” he adds. “not something that feels like a secret. a real date. something good. something you deserve.”

you swallow thickly, tears welling up even as your lips stay curled.

he brushes your hair back from your cheek, tucks it behind your ear like he always used to, like nothing ever changed and everything did “we’re free,” he says. “i promise we are.”

you look at him, heart beating way too fast for something so soft, for something so still. like it’s afraid to believe this is real, that you’re here, that he’s here.

you tilt your head, voice small but shaking with everything inside you “is this not what we would do in another life?” you ask “wasn’t this wrong in this one?”

he stares at you. not blinking. not breathing. like he’s memorizing you all over again.

then he laughs. quiet, breathy, almost like relief. he leans in a little closer, bumping your knee with his “nah,” he says. “we’re in the right one now.”

your breath catches. he reaches for your hand again, fingers curling through yours like they belong there. like they never stopped.

“never was the wrong life,” he murmurs, eyes still locked with yours. “just two dumbasses who didn’t know how to live it right.”

his lips are on yours again before either of you can think twice. soft this time. slower. like he finally gets to kiss you the way he wanted to all along—without guilt, without rushing, without thinking of who’s watching or what it means or how much it might break him later.

you melt into it, into him, letting your fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt. he kisses like he’s missed you. like he’s remembering you. like this is everything.

and when he finally pulls away, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “come on a date with me. please?”

you smile. you’re breathless, dizzy with everything you shouldn’t feel but do anyway.

“yeah,” you murmur. “i’ll come on a date with you.”

rafe blinks. then just… beams “yeah?” he says, like he has to double check. like he can’t believe it. like he doesn’t want to let himself believe it until you say it again.

you nod, and he exhales the biggest breath of his entire life. a crooked, giddy grin breaks across his face as he brings both your hands up to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one.

“fuck,” he mutters, grinning. “you have no idea what you just did to me.”

you laugh, flushed, and he leans in to kiss you again. slower this time. not urgent just full. full of things unspoken and undone and quietly, finally coming back together

his hands hold your face like you’re something fragile and he’s scared of breaking you. and then he’s whispering against your lips, “thank you. thank you for coming back to me.”

so you whisper back, “i never really left.”

taglist masterlist

a/n yall i feel like this is sooo rushed and bad wtf. i’m sorry if this is not what u expected 😔😔 also, reblogs and replies are HIGHLY appreciated and ALSO im taking requests for this.

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @babygoddam @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @lalaloopsieparty @emeloyy @eunivalaa @belle101200 @ennycutie @maybankslover @zuccheromorena @senatorpadmeamidala @swhistledown @imaginethatblog @maybejj @f1petra @rosetintmworld @luvvrafey @marinrscomplex @eyve-5 @allthoughtsmindfull @kaydennnn @rafecameronswhoore @drewstarkeyspecs @electronicladystudent @ymnizuh @heycjjj @cataliveordead @idk0zx @itzzjulie @d00si @nonbeliever1 @bigjuli444 @tul1preads @rgrimesr @berryonasummerevening @abireichstein @whosyourmommy69 @macbaetwo @vdotcom @x-angel-o

Rafe sat in the cab of his midnight blue ford, he felt the engine rumble through the leather of the seat he sat in. His fingers tapped in annoyance against the steering wheel as he waited for you. Your phone call was nothing short of the usual as you begged him sweetly to come scoop you up from your latest sexual escapade – John B Routledge. The first time, he had thought it was a fling, with you, it always was. He knew deep down, once you had your fair share of what a pogue could offer you; nothing, you’d settle down with Topper and spend your days the way you were meant to. He held out hope that this was a phase and nothing more. But, the more times you had asked him to pick you from the cut in the middle of the night, the more worried he got. The more times he did this with you, the more worried he was that you were falling in love. The thought destroyed him; he couldn’t blame John B, really; you were the most beautiful thing the island had ever seen with a personality to match. You spent your time chasing baby turtles through the sand for crying out loud and as much as he loved you, he knew that if he didn’t deserve the goodness of your heart, neither did John B. Rafe was brought out of his thoughts as his passenger door swung open and your ruby red lips were the first thing he took in as they wrapped themselves around a solo cup. 

“You cause enough trouble, today?” 

He said, giggling as he took you in, the glimmer of your eyes sending shivers down his spine, as it always had. You climbed into the truck with a giggle as you placed your back against the warmth of the heated leather. He knew you’d be cold as the October wind brushed against your tan legs. 

“Enough for the both of us.” 

You replied, giving him the bright smile he was so desperate to see all day. He grabbed your hand, pulling the cup from your hands, sniffing it and grimacing. 

“What the fuck are you drinking?” 

He asked incredulously. 

“I don’t know, one of John’s friend’s made it for me. It tastes like jungle juice.” 

You replied, giggling. 

“What did I tell you about taking drinks from strangers, huh?” 

 He growled. 

“Okay, grump pants. I thought I was fine. John was there. I was handling it.” 

You replied, shrugging your shoulders. 

“How many times do I have to tell you that John B doesn’t have your best interest at heart, sweetheart? You don’t know him well enough to be drinking around him. Not every guy will be as good to you as me, Topper, and Kelce.”

You rolled your eyes as Rafe finished his sentence and he threw the drink out the window, watching as the recycled plastic rolled against the grass. 

“Rafe! I’m thirsty, dammit!” 

He threw the truck in reverse, one hand on the back of your seat. You admired him, as you always did; the yellow t-shirt that hugged his muscles and the backwards cap that sat against his perfectly sculpted face. Rafe was something out of a magazine and you were no stranger to that, but he was also your best friend and it would have to stay that way. 

“I know you are.” 

He replied simply. You continued to watch him as he drove, the muscles of his forearm contracting every time he moved his arms. By the time he pulled into the gas station, you realized you were in a trance, a common occurrence when you were in his presence. There was a reason you called him instead of your other two stooges late at night. Maybe he knew or maybe he didn’t. Rafe stepped down from the truck, moving toward the gas pump and inserting his debit card before inserting the pump into his truck and waiting until it stopped. He made his way around the car only moments later and opened your door. 

“What are you doing?” 

You questioned him with furrowed eyebrows as he grabbed your hand and eased you down from the height of his truck. 

“I’m buying my favorite girl a slushie, what are you doing?” 

He replied, playfully and you smiled as you walked beside him. Once you finished the journey across the parking lot, Rafe stepped ahead of you and you wanted to punch him for it at first. That is, until he held the door open and you walked through the door of the gas station. He was kind with you and you never tell anyone the version of him that you go to see. You’d never tell anyone that the big, bad, Rafe Cameron had a heart of gold. You’d never tell anyone he was a big ol’ teddy bear deep down. You followed him to the slushie machine, where he lifted the knob, pouring the red liquid into your cup and the blue into his. You thought the color variations were interesting and a tell of how different the two of you really were – fire and ice, warmth and hostility, all wrapped in one blanket to mend together two people who couldn’t live without the other. 

The two of you exited the store together, retreating back to his truck before you spoke again. He handed you his iced beverage, the polar bear on the outside of it reminding of your childhood. Rafe knew this and he knew that’s why you loved slushies, yet it perplexed him why you only shared them with him. He placed the keys in the ignition, turning them over as the engine roared to life. You compared a lot of things to Rafe, almost every boy, every scenario, every situation. Yet, none of those things made you feel as alive as five minutes alone with him. You wondered if he knew. You wondered if he was capable of understanding that he held the key to the diary of you. You handed him his slushie and he gave you a smile as he watched you put your seatbelt on, knowing he had no intentions of going anywhere any time soon. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

You questioned him, returning the sentiment. 

“Just how crazy you are.” 

He replied, chuckling and watched as your eyes lit up as you sucked the cold bits of your beverage through the straw. 

“You always rescue me from my crazy antics, though, so I'd say it's worth it.” 

You said, struggling your shoulders and continuing to slurp down the cold goodness. 

“Who was there tonight?” 

He questioned, his tone turning serious, though doing his best to keep it light enough to avoid your suspicious gaze. 

“Me and John b and some of the other pogues.” 

You replied. 

“What other pogues?” 

He asked with more edge in his voice. 

“Uh, I don't know. That JJ kid I think and pope.”

You answered him, wondering why he had that scared look in his eye. 

“Who made you the drink?” 

He questioned. 

“Why, Rafe? Why does it matter?” 

He rolled his eyes at your question. You couldn’t be this naive, he thought. You couldn’t be this careless. 

“Because it just does! How the hell am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know who you’re hanging around when you call me at three in the morning?” 

He grunted out, throwing his head back in exasperation. 

“Oh, uhm. JJ. He made the drink. Listen —, I’m uh, I’m sorry for calling a lot. I won’t call anymore, I didn’t mean to make you upset.” 

You swallowed thickly after the words spilled out of your mouth in a sense of urgency. You only called because you wanted to see him and you knew he’d come. But, you didn’t think about how selfish that was until right now. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. 

“Sweetheart, no. I always want you to call. I just — I need to know you’re safe and JJ Maybank is not safe, okay?” 

You nodded in response. 

“What do you mean he isn’t safe, Rafe?” 

You never questioned Rafe; not when it came to things of importance. But, you felt the need to now and you weren’t sure why. 

“He has a reputation with girls, okay? All you need to know is that he’s not safe and I’m not gonna tell you not to spend time with John B, I know you wouldn’t listen. So, from now on, I don’t care what’s going on, if you’re uncomfortable, you fucking call me, yeah?” 

His tone was laced with venom. 

“Yeah” 

You responded, swallowing thickly before laying your head on his shoulder. You knew no matter what that Rafe would always take care of you and you’d do the same for him. 

he’s still there clinging to the back of your mind like cigarette smoke in your hair. but you don’t let it fester. you trained yourself not to rewind. not to linger. you decided it didn’t matter. you decided what happened between you and rafe was nothing.

now, everything you choose to think about is nate, nate, nate. his cologne. his voice in your ear. his hands around your waist.

you’re good at pretending. so good, you almost believe it. until something reminds you. buuut, you’re with nate. consistent.easy. good on paper. he says all the right things, shows up when he says he will, takes you out to places where the chairs match the curtains and the water comes in fancy glasses. he listens when you talk. he calls you baby when he’s not even trying to be flirty.

you’ve let yourself settle into it. into him. because why the hell not? it’s better than holding onto a memory you can’t get back. better than holding onto rafe. you’ve decided to let that whole situation rot in the back of your mind.

a chapter closed. a mistake buried. he doesn’t exist in your day to day now. except—he kiiind of does.

and that’s thanks to topper fucking thornton, who hasn’t shut the fuck up about rafe since the night he accidentally set this whole thing in motion.

every hangout turns into a slow spiral back to him. topper will be halfway through telling you about some new gym equipment, or a bar fight he barely won, and then “man, you know who’s been acting real different lately?”

you already know.

“rafe.” of fucking course. it’s become background noise at this point. the static that buzzes under every conversation.

“i don’t know, i just think maybe nate isn’t your guy,” topper’ll say, sipping his drink with that god awful straw chew he does. “he’s cool and all but… i don’t know. feels off. too cool. you know what i mean?”

or “rafe’s been showing up on time to everything. saying thank you and shit. thank you, bro. who even is he now?”

or your personal favorite, “he probably misses you.”

and you always laugh it off, or change the subject, or pretend not to hear. because what the fuck does it matter now? you made your decision. rafe didn’t stop you. he didn’t try again. he didn’t come after you that night. and if he wanted you—if it ever meant something—he would’ve shown you. he would’ve said something. but he didn’t.

so now, it’s nate. it has to be.

you’re sitting with topper at the country club right now, waiting for nate to show up. it’s one of those casual meet ups that nate planned late lunch, maybe a swim, a few drinks with friends. you’re dressed cute, sundress and lip gloss, legs crossed and sunglasses pushed up into your hair. topper’s in board shorts and that faded OBX shirt he refuses to throw out, sipping on his second bloody mary like it’s water.

and—you guessed it—he’s talking about rafe. “no, but like seriously,” topper’s saying, “he’s been different lately.”

you look at him. “you’ve said that.”

“i mean it, though.” topper leans back, one arm across the chair, eyebrows raised like he’s just waiting for you to agree. “he’s polite now. and sweet. he holds doors open for people. he helped my mom carry groceries last week. like… who the fuck does that?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting your dress.“what do you want me to say?”

“that you notice it.”

“i don’t,” you lie.

topper sighs, like he’s trying to make you see some great revelation. “he probably misses you. i’m not even joking this time. he asks about you every time we hang out. not directly—but, like, in that weird rafe way where he pretends he doesn’t care but totally does.”

you stare at your glass, the condensation dripping down like it’s melting under the heat. your stomach knots. you told yourself you were done letting him have that kind of space in your brain. he doesn’t deserve it.

but topper’s still talking. “i think he fucked it up and he knows it. you’re just… you’re different, you know? he’s not used to you. he doesn’t know how to do someone like you.”

you snort. “someone like me?”

“yeah. real. not after him for his money or his name or whatever. not scared of his attitude. you’re—i don’t know, you’re good for him. and you don’t take his shit.”

you look away, swallowing. “nate doesn’t give me shit to take.”

topper looks at you then. soft, quiet “yeah. maybe that’s the problem.”

before you can answer, you hear footsteps.

nate’s voice cuts through the air, easy and familiar. “there she is,” he grins, walking toward your table. his sunglasses are hooked into the collar of his shirt, and his smile stretches wide across his face. “my favorite girl.”

he leans down to kiss your cheek, hands warm against your waist. “only girl. sorry i’m late. traffic. and some idiot ran a stop sign near the marina.”

topper gives a pointed look to you but doesn’t say anything else. you smile back at nate, lips tight, and let your body lean toward him on instinct. you ignore the heaviness in your chest.

you think of rafe. only for a second.one. the way his voice dropped when he was angry. the way he held your face after—like he’d never forgive himself for what he just did.

you blink hard and wipe that thought clean. nate is here now. nate is safe. nate is yours. and rafe is just a reminder. a bruise you stopped pressing on. a mistake that doesn’t get to live rent free anymore. right?

nate slides into the seat next to you,he smells good. clean, coastal, something expensive but not try hard. he’s got that ease to him, the kind of boy who never doubts the space he takes up. confident but not cocky. at least, not in a way that’s annoying.

he leans back in his chair, arm brushing yours, eyes bright under the sun. “god, i’m forever grateful you told me about this amazing girl right here,” he says to topper, nodding toward you like you’re some glowing miracle. “i mean, look at her…”

he gestures with both hands like he’s presenting a painting. a masterpiece. “…perfection.”

you try not to laugh. or blush. or melt straight through the deck chair.

topper barks a laugh, shaking his head. “bro, you sound like you’re about to propose.”

“don’t tempt me,” nate grins, turning back to you. “if i knew girls like you existed around here, i would’ve moved out sooner.”

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “okay, relax.”

“what? i’m serious.” nate turns back to topper. “she’s funny, she’s hot, she’s got that scary confidence thing going on—i love it. and that little eye roll she does when she’s pretending not to like compliments? lethal.”

“you’re a sap,” you mumble, but you’re definitely smiling now.

“i like you,” he corrects.

topper watches the two of you with a lazy smirk, sipping the last of his drink. “man, i did good. i’m a fuckin’ matchmaker now.”

“you should put that on your resume,” you mutter.

“nah, just on my instagram bio,” he says. “got my friend laid and emotionally supported, ask me how.”

you laugh—actually laugh, loud and real and warm—and nate watches you like he wants to memorize it. like he’s trying to bottle it. the buzz in your chest isn’t regret. it isn’t guilt. it’s almost something like happiness.

“not laid though, top,” you say, cutting him off with a raised brow and a pointed tone. “we didn’t… do that.”

nate lets out a low, amused whistle beside you. “damn. setting the record straight.”

you shrug, playful. “just don’t want anyone spreading rumors.”

topper blinks. “wait—seriously?”

“seriously,” you echo, sipping your iced tea like it’s champagne and this is some goddamn brunch gossip segment.

nate throws an arm over the back of your chair, grinning. “not for lack of trying on my part, just to be clear.”

you elbow him gently, rolling your eyes with a smile.

topper leans back, clearly confused. “but like… i thought you guys were basically glued together lately.”

“we are,” you say. “doesn’t mean we’ve fucked.”

“yet,” nate adds, teasing, and you shoot him a warning glance that only makes him smirk harder.

topper looks between you two like he’s witnessing some kind of miracle. “man. she really likes you.”

“you say that like it’s rare,” you mutter.

“it is!” topper exclaims. “i mean… you’re hot, yeah, but you’re also emotionally distant as shit and don’t return texts unless you’re bored.”

you and nate both laugh, and nate says, “bro, she’s just selective.”

you grin into your glass. “exactly.”

and for a second, everything’s calm. light. simple. until you glance down at your phone. a notification. one you haven’t opened in weeks. a name you’ve been ignoring. you didn’t block him on spotify so when he changed your playlist name it shocked you “you still hate me?”

your chest tightens. your throat dries. you lock your screen. you smile at nate. you pretend again. and that little voice returns—you don’t. you never did. you twirl your straw between your fingers, letting your gaze fall somewhere past the umbrellas and golf carts, past the blue sky and the stillness that doesn’t quite reach your chest.

“i just don’t want us to regret it after,” you tell topper, not looking at either of them as the words land. “we’re taking our time.”

your voice doesn’t waver. not even a little. but inside, your ribs feel too tight. like you’re trying to convince more than just topper. like maybe you’re reminding yourself, too.

topper raises a brow, hands up in surrender. “hey, i get it. no pressure. just sayin’, he’s clearly down bad.”

before you can respond, nate leans forward with that easy smile of his, his fingers grazing the back of your chair again—like he needs to be touching you, even just barely.

“damn right we are,” he says, warm and steady. “taking our time.”

you look at him, really look, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach twist but not in that volatile, rafe cameron kind of way. this is different. this is calm. this is good.

he nudges your knee with his. “you’ve got nothing to prove. we’ll get there when we get there.”

you nod slowly, feeling your shoulders drop just a little. “thanks.”

“plus,” nate grins, “i like earning shit. and you? definitely worth the slow burn.”

topper groans. “okay. that’s enough hallmark channel for me. i’m gonna go grab another drink before you two start writing vows.”

you laugh, head tilting back, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself forget what slow burns feel like when they end in ashes.

you let yourself believe this might actually work. that this won’t turn into another—mistake.

now it’s just you and topper sitting in his car, parked outside your house in figure eight. windows down, your sandals dangling out the open door, the sky streaked purple and pink above the marshes.

he’s been quiet for a minute. too quiet. then he glances over at you. “okay,” he says. “spill.”

you give him a side eye. “spill what?”

“why you didn’t sleep with nate.”

you groan, head thudding back against the seat. “topper—”

“no judgment! i’m just confused. you like him, right? and he’s into you, obviously. so what’s the holdup?”

you sit there for a moment, watching the cicadas light up across the yard, the soft flicker of a porch light down the street. then you say it “i’m guessing rafe told you we slept together.”

topper blinks. caught “…he might’ve mentioned it.”

you nod, biting your bottom lip. “yeah. it was a mistake.”

topper frowns. “a mistake how?”

“a mistake,” you repeat, sharper. “i thought we were friends. i mean, we were friends. then that happened and it” you stop yourself, exhale. “i don’t want to do the same thing with nate.”

topper stays quiet, listening like he knows you’ve got more to say.

you gesture vaguely, frustrated. “what we have now? it’s good. it’s easy. nate’s… sweet, and normal. he actually likes me and doesn’t make me feel like I’m just—something convenient.”

topper tilts his head. “so what, you’re scared of ruining it?”

you glance at him, shrug. “kinda. i think i ruined a lot of things that night with rafe. including how i see him. including how i see myself.” you swallow. “i don’t want to do that again.”

topper stares at you, mouth pressing into a line. “you didn’t ruin anything,” he says eventually. “you’re allowed to want something different this time. nate’s lucky.”

you smile, soft and sad all at once “thanks, top.”

“but,” he adds, playful again, “if you two do hook up, i better not find out from rafe.”

you shove his shoulder with a laugh, and he grins. the porch light flickers as you shut the door behind you, but before it clicks fully closed, you hear the soft thunk of topper’s car door swinging open again.

you pause. then pull it back. he’s halfway up your driveway, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, a rare seriousness carved into his face.

“top?”

he exhales like he’s been holding it all day. “i want you with rafe.”

you blink. “what?”

“i want you with rafe,” he repeats, louder this time. “i know you noticed it. whatever it is between you two. i’ve known.”

you step onto the porch slowly, arms folding across your chest. “you’re the one who hooked me up with nate, topper.”

“yeah, i did,” he says. “because i thought you needed a distraction. thought maybe rafe would stop acting like a fucking idiot if he saw you moving on. but now—i don’t know. maybe i screwed everything up.”

you shake your head, voice going flat. “you didn’t screw anything up.”

“then what are you doing?” he says. “you’re with nate, but you’re not. you’re smiling but not really. and rafe’s walking around like someone shot him in the chest every morning. and i just keep thinking… maybe i should’ve never played middleman.”

you look away, jaw locked tight “my thing with rafe,” you say, quieter now, “was nothing.”

he scoffs, but you keep going “nothing to him. nothing to me. it was just—it happened. and it fucke with my head. and i’ve been trying so hard not to let it ruin anything else. especially not something good like nate.”

topper steps up onto the porch, facing you fully now“he never said it was nothing,” he says. “not once.”

your heart pulls hard against your chest, but you don’t let it show “well” you mutter, “he didn’t say it was something either.”

topper sighs, gaze dropping, and for a second the only sound is the wind rustling through the trees in your front yard “i just want you to be happy,” he says finally. “but you don’t have to pretend around me. not about rafe.”

you swallow thickly. but still, you say nothing. because happy looks like nate. right?

you look at topper, and you hate how sincere his face is. how he looks at you like you’re the last puzzle piece in a game he doesn’t even want to win. like if he could just say the right thing, it’ll all fall into place..you and rafe and whatever past he’s trying to resurrect.

you blink slowly, jaw tight. “well, there’s nothing i have to say about rafe, topper.”

he opens his mouth, and you hold up a hand, stopping him before he even gets the words out. “no, seriously. i mean it. there’s nothing left. there was barely anything to begin with. we weren’t dating. we weren’t anything. we were friends and then we fucked and then we stopped talking. that’s it.”

topper exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

you step back, leaning against one of the porch pillars, your arms still crossed but your heart thudding like you’re the one being confronted. like you did something wrong.

“i get it,” you mutter. “you’re trying to help. but you’re acting like any of this matters when it doesn’t. it’s done.”

he hesitates then his voice drops low, more serious than before. “rafe regrets it.”

you shake your head instantly. “no. don’t do that.”

“i’m serious,” topper says. “he regrets it so fucking much, he can’t even look me in the eye when i bring you up. he’s different, okay? lately? he’s been… off. and not in his usual ‘about to beat someone up’ way. like really off. i’ve never seen him like that.”

you let out a dry laugh, more bitter than anything “cool. he’s spiraling. good for him.”

topper flinches a little at your tone, but doesn’t back down. “he told me he fucked up. he said he lost you. not just the hookup—you. the friend. and he hates himself for it.”

you look away, out toward the dark street. your porch light buzzes softly behind you “topper,” you say quietly. “it doesn’t matter what he says.”

“it matters to him.”

“no,” you say, sharper now. “it doesn’t. it’s just talk. that’s all rafe ever does. say the things he thinks will fix shit without actually fixing it. and i don’t want that.”

topper’s brows furrow, confused.

you keep going, words picking up like a wave, riding the frustration that’s been sitting in your chest since the second you pulled your clothes on that night. “rafe talks. he says things. and then five minutes later he’s with someone else or disappearing or making me feel like I imagined everything. he made me feel like I was disposable. and now he’s what? remorseful? he wants to say sorry? why? what do i get from that, huh? a guilt trip and some vague closure? no thanks.”

you shake your head again, this time firmer.“nate’s not like that.”

topper’s eyes soften.

you shrug like it’s obvious “nate doesn’t talk. he shows. he actually listens to me. he compliments me in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get something out of it. he holds my hand when we walk places. he remembers what kind of wine i like and doesn’t let me pay for dinner and says stupid shit like ‘you’re worth it’ and god, maybe that’s corny, but i’d rather corny than another pretty lie.”

topper’s quiet now. he nods, once,“i get it,”

you look back at the house, then at him. your voice is quieter when you say“i’m just tired of feeling like a convenience. nate doesn’t make me feel that way.”

and topper—finally—doesn’t argue. he just nods again, pats the top of your head in that dumb, big brother way he does when he knows he’s pushed too far. “alright,” he says. “alright. i’ll drop it.”

you nod once, like a truce.

but later, when you’re in bed and staring at the ceiling with your phone lighting up with a goodnight text from nate—it’s not his name your mind drifts to, not his voice that you hear. not his arms you remember.

you tell yourself it’s just old wiring. just a memory trying to trick you. t’s just because you got used to rafe. that’s all. he was your friend. emotionally unavailable, unstable, trying to get clean, trying to be better…but still, a friend.

the one who always found the lighter when you couldn’t. who’d sit in the back of parties with you, sipping cheap beer and saying shit like “we’re too good for this”

it’s not that you miss him, not really. you miss the familiarity. the rhythm. the way you didn’t have to explain yourself when you were pissed at the world. he already got it. the way his voice dipped soft when he was really listening, when he wasn’t putting on the cocky act. when it was just you and him and no audience to impress.

it’s nothing more than that. your mind’s just remembering your friend—not the guy who pressed his mouth to your neck like he needed to ruin something. not the one who called once and never again. not the one you caught with another girl that night. no. you’re just adjusting to the quiet.

nate makes it easy. you like that. you need that. you tell yourself again it’s not about rafe. it’s just about the past. it was a mistake. you chose to forget it.

so stop remembering now.

kelce leans back against the hood of rafe’s car, half a blunt in one hand, watching his best friend unravel at the seams like it’s a once every three days event now.

and it is. maybe rafe’s always been unraveling, just slower, quieter. maybe it only started spilling loud the moment you walked out of his life like you never meant to stay in it.

“fuck,” rafe mutters for the sixth time, pacing, fingers buried in his hair. “fuck, man. i lost her.”

kelce exhales smoke, unimpressed. “you said that already.”

“no, like—really lost her. for good. because of what?” his voice climbs, cracks slightly. “because i wanted to feel powerful when i left? because i couldn’t just say how i felt? fuck, that’s fucked, man. i’m fucked.”

“you’re dramatic,” kelce says. but his tone’s not mean. not tonight.

rafe’s spiraling harder than usual, and that’s saying something. he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since you. not a single girl. not one.

he can’t even look at another girl without remembering how you looked beneath him—flushed, breathless, whispering his name like it meant more. like he meant something.

but then he did what he always does. he ran. he made it a joke. a fuck. because he didn’t know how to sit in the aftermath without control, and losing control meant losing everything. so he made you feel disposable.and you walked away.

and now? two weeks. two weeks since topper’s party. two weeks of hearing about you and nate—nate the golden boy, nate the good guy, nate who calls you “baby” and opens your doors and fucking waits for you.

and all rafe’s got is regret and a lighter that won’t spark.

“she made me feel like…” he trails off, eyes dark, glassy. “like i was fun again. not crazy. not some rich asshole with a fucked up head. she made me feel—free.”

kelce doesn’t say anything, just looks up at him like he’s waiting for the rest.

rafe laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “clean, too. like not sober clean, i mean like… like i wasn’t rotting from the inside out. i never had that before. not even with... not with any of ‘em.”

his voice dips, quieter. “but i made her feel like she was just a body. like i didn’t care. and now she’s with nate and i’m just—i’m just the fucking guy who couldn’t hold it together long enough to matter.”

he kicks gravel, hard, and kelce finally speaks. “so what’re you gonna do? sit here and sulk while she falls in love with someone else?”

rafe doesn’t answer. because yeah, maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. because he doesn’t know how to fix this. because he’s rafe cameron. he doesn’t do love. he fucks. he ruins. he regrets.

rafe scoffs under his breath, digging the heel of his palm into his eye like that’ll stop it from twitching. like that’ll keep the burn behind it from turning into something wetter, something pathetic.

he paces in a half circle and mutters, “she fucking blocked me, man. like full on my calls, my texts. just gone. like i didn’t even exist.”

kelce lets out a low, dry laugh. “bro. bro. that’s what happens when you treat a girl like shit after railing her. like what did you think was gonna happen? you ghosted her the second you finished—literally. wiped your dick and left her hanging like it was some fucking game.”

rafe shoots him a glare. “i didn’t ghost her.”

kelce grins. “oh, right. you just didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t look at her and then let her catch you getting felt up by brianna fucking weston at the party where she was standing ten feet away. my bad. you’re right. not ghosting. just your average emotional terrorism.”

“shut the fuck up, kelce,” rafe growls, dragging a hand down his face. “you think i don’t know i fucked up?”

“yeah, actually. i don’t think you knew.” kelce flicks ash, leaning heavier on the car. “because if you knew, you wouldn’t’ve done it. or you would’ve owned it. but nah—you spiraled, man. you imploded. you took the one good thing you had and you torched it just to prove to yourself you could still ruin something.”

rafe opens his mouth. closes it again. nothing comes out but a shallow breath and a crack in his voice when he finally says, “she looked at me like i mattered. like i wasn’t just..this.” he gestures to himself like that explains everything. the blood under his nails. the bags under his eyes. the guilt in his gut.

“you don’t get it,” he mutters. “she made me feel fucking human again. and now she’s out with him every goddamn night like i never meant shit.”

“you didn’t,” kelce says bluntly, shaking his head. “not the way you acted. you don’t get to yearn after you made her feel like a quick fuck, man. you don’t get to want her back when all you did was prove she was right to walk.”

“i do want her,” rafe spits, hands balled into fists, “i fucking ache for her. i close my eyes and it’s her. she’s in my head, man.”

“then maybe next time,” kelce shrugs, “don’t fuck someone you’re in love with and pretend it’s casual.”

rafe freezes. stares. “i’m not in—” he starts, voice sharp defensive.

kelce laughs, cuts him off. “you’re not in love? right. that’s why you haven’t touched another girl in two weeks. that’s why you nearly murdered a tequila bottle last night listening to her playlist. that’s why you’re standing here ranting like a sad ex husban instead of texting some hookup. okay. not in love. got it.”

rafe doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. his chest just heaves, once. twice. then—“fuck,” he whispers, voice splintered. “fuck, i am.”

and it hits him like a goddamn truck. he is. he loves you. and he ruined it before it even had the chance to start.

rafe’s voice is barely a breath. cracked and frayed like the rest of him. “you think she knows?”

kelce stops mid laugh, then blinks at him like he’s grown two heads “do i think she knows?” he repeats, scoffing, then fully doubles over. “man what the fuck.”

rafe’s jaw clenches. his eyes narrow but not with anger, more like shame

kelce keeps going, laughing harder now, borderline wheezing “you think she’s sitting at home all soulmate telepathy like, oh rafe definitely loves me—he just looked like he got his dick sucked by another girl in a bathroom at a party where she was literally downstairs?!”

“i didn’t,” rafe snaps. too fast, too sharp. his chest heaving now like he needs to justify it to someone, anyone.

kelce drops the act for a second, exhales, then shrugs. “i know you didn’t. she doesn’t.”

rafe doesn’t say anything.

kelce lights another cigarette, then points it at him like a dagger “you think i don’t know?” he says. “how fast you zipped up? how you stormed outta that bathroom like you’d seen a ghost?”

he grins.“your dick went limp the second she started talking.”

rafe closes his eyes like he’s being exorcised.

kelce just keeps going. “nah, not even talking. existing. she opened her mouth and boom—you were soft as hell because she wasn’t her.” he laughs again, mean but not cruel. just honest. “congrats, romeo. you got the ick mid blowjob.”

rafe mutters something low and hoarse that sounds like “fuck off.”

but kelce just smirks, flicking ash “you’re not mad at me, bro. you’re mad ‘cause she’s out there thinking you’re a fuckboy when really you’re just a lovesick dumbass.” silence. “you better pray she finds out the truth before you lose her for good.”

rafe exhales, voice rough and bitter. “i already lost her, bitch.”

kelce chuckles, shaking his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world“well, just for the record, nate really is a good guy. did you know they didn’t even fuck yet?”

rafe blinks, surprise flickering across his face for a second before it hardens again “no shit?”

kelce grins, lighting another smoke “yeah man, like… they’re actually taking their time. which is pretty damn impressive considering who nate’s dealing with.”

rafe lets out a dry laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes “guess that’s what she deserves.”

kelce nods slowly “exactly. someone who shows her she’s worth more than a quick fuck and some empty words.”

rafe looks away, swallowing whatever else he wants to say “yeah… guess i really fucked up.”

kelce laughs, a low, rough sound “you soooo did, man. i mean, she’s taking her time now ’cause she’s probably scared he’s gonna leave her—just like you did, dickhead.”

rafe sits back, arms resting on his knees, the cigarette smoke from kelce’s mouth drifting right into his face but he doesn’t even flinch. he’s not thinking about it. he’s barely thinking at all. just spiraling in slow motion.

his voice cracks when he speaks again, all swallowed pride and helpless ache “so what do i do, man?”

kelce just stares at him for a beat. like really looks at him. like he’s not used to rafe cameron asking questions instead of pretending he knows everything.

then he exhales smoke through his nose, slow and sure “do exactly what you did when you wanted to be her friend,” kelce says. “remember? how you used to show up to her place with shit she liked? how you let her vent for hours? drove her to class, walked her back even when you didn’t have to? you didn’t try to be important to her back then. you just… were.”

rafe’s jaw tightens, his fingers twitching against his knees. he remembers. of course he does.

late night drives with you riding shotgun, legs on the dash. spending hours laying in the back of his jeep just talking about everything and nothing. bringing you your favorite stupid gas station candy after bad exams. not trying to flirt. not trying to fuck.

just being someone you could count on. someone you trusted.

and then he ruined it.

“you just existed in her space,” kelce says, tapping ash off the edge of the curb. “you didn’t try to make her fall for you. you just showed up.”

rafe turns slowly, watching his best friend with the kind of disbelief that’s almost reverent “..fuck,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “you’re a fucking genius.”

kelce snorts.“i know. not the first time you’ve been blessed by my wisdom.”

“don’t push it.”

but rafe’s already thinkin… being there. again. like before. not rafe cameron the mistake. rafe cameron the friend. the one you used to trust.

because maybe, if he can be that again..you might let him back in. even just a little. and god, he’d take even that.

rafe suddenly shoots up like his body can’t sit still another second. he paces a few steps, runs a hand through his hair, his whole chest moving like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged deep in it.

“i’m gonna do a grand gesture,” he blurts out, wild eyed. “she’ll probably fucking hate it.”

kelce doesn’t even blink. just takes another drag and blows the smoke out through a crooked grin “hate it at first,” he says. “cry about it later, you mean.”

rafe stares down the street, eyes sharp and stubborn and aching. “yeah.” his voice is low, serious“yeah, exactly that.”

your room isn’t what people expect when they hear figure eight. no sharp lines or minimalist bullshit. nothing sterile or showroom perfect.

your walls are a soft chaos—warm-toned posters, overlapping polaroids, scribbled notes, postcards from nowhere. the string lights don’t match, half are dim, a few flicker like they’re tired too. it’s all a little messy, a little magic.

your bed’s unmade, corners half tucked. the window’s cracked open, wind slipping in like a whisper, fluttering the edge of an old photograph tacked to the frame. it smells like lavender and body spray and that one candle you keep lighting even though it’s down to the nub.

too cozy for a kook girl. too soft. too human. not what they expect from someone who grew up where money grows on trees and reputations are currency.

you’re pacing. arms crossed, biting the inside of your cheek. nate texted. something sweet. like always. you like him. you soooo like him. he says the right things. he respects your pace. he looks at you like you’re art—something you always wanted to be to someone. and still—god, still…there’s something in your stomach that doesn’t settle. something that feels off. not bad, just… almost too good. too clean. too easy.

nate makes you feel warm, but you don’t burn. he kisses you and your heart skips, but it doesn’t trip.

you lean against the window frame, breathing in night air. your fingers reach for your phone—scroll, scroll, stop.

rafe cameron. still blocked. you close your eyes. you like nate. you really, really do. but something about the way it’s going…it almost feels like pretending. like you’re playing the part of the girl who moved on. and you’re starting to realize..maybe you’re not ready to.

you tell yourself not to. you always tell yourself not to. and then you do it anyway. your phone’s already in your hand, thumb moving like it has a mind of its own.

photos. videos. summer. god, summer.

you scroll past blurry sunsets and half eaten ice cream cones, candid group shots and late night gas station runs.

and then—you find it. the one. the video. your screen lights up with blue. water. you’re laughing, soaked, breathless. the camera shakes—he was holding it, of course he was—and you can hear him in the background, voice rough and playful

“you’re gonna make me drop my phone, dumbass.” and you, laughing back “you said cannonball, so i cannonballed.”

the camera dips as he walks closer, waves licking the lens. you’re in the water up to your chest, hair slicked back, droplets running down your skin “come here,” you say.

“no,” he says. “you’re evil. you’ll dunk me.”

“i won’t.”

he laughs. it’s real. unguarded. god, you forgot how real he sounded with you. then the camera jerks a little, water splashes again, and suddenly—he’s in the frame. right beside you. soaked. dripping. both of you gasping, grinning. your arm reaches out and wraps around his neck, pulling him close. “see?” you say. “wasn’t so bad.”

he’s looking at you like—fuck. like he didn’t know how to stop. the video ends with water on the lens and a muffled laugh from him. you watch it twice. three times.

your chest feels full and hollow all at once. your stomach does that slow twist it always does when you remember what came after. you lock your phone and set it facedown. the air feels heavy now. your room smaller.

nate doesn’t make you feel like that. but maybe that’s the point. maybe that’s what you need. still…you miss the ocean.and you miss him in it. with you.

your fingers hover over the screen for a second. you should stop. you sooo should. but your body doesn’t listen. you swipe. right again. and again. it’s all there. frozen in time, like nothing ever went wrong. like your heart didn’t end up somewhere under his heel.

photos you almost forgot existed. screenshots of your conversations.

rafe with a stupid hoodie half on, half off, hair messy, holding a slurpee you made him buy you. you said: my personal atm 🥰

his reply had been “fuck you” followed by “ily tho.”

just friend things.

another one. he’s asleep in your passenger seat, mouth slightly open, a sunbeam across his jaw. your hand had been on the wheel, your other hand holding the phone, catching that soft moment because—because it felt like yours to keep.

another. he’s holding your hand under the table at toppers. you remember the way your stomach twisted, how your pulse fluttered in your throat. he’d been saying something about a movie you were both obsessed with, but his fingers were tracing circles on your palm like none of it mattered except that.

just friends. sure.

and the one that undoes you. you’re laughing, head thrown back. rafe’s looking at you—not the camera, not the beach around you—you. eyes soft. almost dazed.

he’d told you later that day that you were his favorite person. his favorite person ever.

and god. you knew him then. more than anyone. he gave you his weekends like they were nothing. showed up uninvited and stayed the whole day. called you when he couldn’t sleep, texted you stupid memes at 2am. let you in.

you remember him handing you a hoodie and saying “this one’s yours now.”

you remember sitting on the porch while he smoked and he’d say shit like “you’re the only person that doesn’t make me feel like shit.”

it all lives here. in the photos. in the quiet between swipes. in the ache behind your ribs.

you should delete them. you should. but you don’t. you never do. because for a second, before everything got messy, he was yours. and you were his. just… not in the way that counted. the way you both wanted. or want.

it starts to hit harder now. not the video.not the pictures. the memories behind them. the kind of shit that sneaks in when you’re not paying attention. when the house is too quiet and the light from your phone screen is the only thing illuminating your room.

you remember the first time you smoked a cigarette. you were sitting on the edge of rafe’s truck bed, feet kicking the dirt beneath you, one of those hazy figure eight nights that smelled like gasoline and summer sweat.

you’d bought the pack yourself. cheapest one you could find. half out of rebellion, half curiosity, all stupid.

he snatched it out of your hand the second you pulled it from your bag. “what the fuck is this?”his nose wrinkled, his voice sharp “you bought this?”

you shrugged “didn’t wanna spend a lot, just wanted to try it.”

rafe had glared at you, shoved the pack into his back pocket and muttered, “if you’re gonna kill your lungs, at least let me buy the good shit.”

he left. came back ten minutes later with a better brand and a flask. you lit your first one with shaky fingers. burned your throat. choked.

he laughed “you’re not even inhaling right, dumbass.”

and then he stood behind you, two fingers on your wrist, the other hand on your waist, talking you through it like it was something sacred. like he’d done it a million times and you were the only person he’d ever teach.

that same night, you got drunk together. not tipsy. not buzzed. drunk.

he passed you the flask and you took a big gulp like you had something to prove.

he made a face, said “relax, lightweight,” then downed twice as much just to one up you. you sat shoulder to shoulder against the back tire of the truck, liquor heavy in your veins, and you started talking. about anything. everything.

he told you shit he probably never meant to share. about his mom. his dad. his anger. his addictions. his nightmares.

you didn’t even realize your hand had slid into his. not until he squeezed it back. and you didn’t talk about that part the next day. or ever. because friends don’t hold hands drunk in the dark while spilling their guts. you both pretended it never happened. but your heart never really forgot.

even now, it plays back in your head like a movie reel. the heat of his skin, the softness in his voice just before the slur took over.

the way he’d looked at you like he wished the world would end right there so he wouldn’t have to go back to it. you were a warm place for him. and he was—god. he was a mistake.

well fuck. fucking fuck.

you drop the phone face down on your bed like it burned you. your chest tightens, throat all knotted up with something that feels too much like guilt and not enough like air. your heart’s beating so fast it’s starting to piss you off. it’s just rafe. it’s just some old photos. old shit.

but you can’t lie to yourself. you’re fucked.

because no matter how many times you look at nate and smile, how many cute little dates you go on, how many times he texts you just to say he misses your face—you don’t feel the fire.

not the wrong kind, not the reckless kind. not the kind rafe used to set off inside you just by walking in a room.

nate is so sweet. so consistent. so… nate. he remembers your coffee order, walks you to your door every time, texts good morning beautiful like it’s a reflex. he doesn’t make you second guess yourself. doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t break you. he makes you laugh, he listens, he holds your hand.

and here you are, barely able to look him in the eye. because the guilt is fucking chewing you alive.

you keep thinking about him. about rafe. about his stupid mouth and his bruised knuckles and that look he used to get when you said his name. you think about the way he kissed you. the way he didn’t say sorry. the way he made you feel like everything and nothing at the same time.

and still—still—you can’t stop. you think of him and your stomach flips. you think of nate and your stomach sinks.

you can’t do this to him. you shouldn’t. but god. you already are.

you stare at the blank screen like it holds all the answers. it doesn’t. your fingers type before you even know what you’re doing: i’m about to do something so stupid.

sent to: topper

delivered

you don’t wait for him to reply. you don’t even want to know what he’ll say.

your thumb hovers for a second…then you swipe down and shut it off completely.

no notifications. no more reminders of who you are when you’re not with nate. when you’re not pretending to be better than you are.

you sit on your bed, silent, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. the room that felt warm a second ago suddenly feels too small, too loud.

you can hear your thoughts—scraping, screaming, scratching.

rafe. nate. you.

and that last one—that one hurts the worst. because who even are you right now?

the girl who kissed rafe like he was the only air she needed, then pretended it never happened? the girl who goes on cute dates with nate and lets him look at her like she’s worth something, when she can’t even meet his eyes without hearing rafe’s voice in the back of her head?

you’re spiraling, and you know it. but you don’t stop. you just sit there, in your too cozy room, lights dimmed and heart racing,

thinking about how everything went to hell the moment you let rafe cameron touch you. thinking about how maybe— just maybe—you never stopped wanting him to.

you try to talk yourself down. try to breathe. to be rational. to not be this girl. but it’s no use, your mind is already halfway gone. because no matter how many times you tell yourself it was just a hookup, just a mistake,just a moment…you keep coming back to that night.

topper’s party. 2 a.m. haze. sticky floors and pulsing music. and him. him walking down the stairs with brianna, her hair a mess, her lipstick smeared like it had been wiped off someone’s skin. him with that look in his eyes—like he was high on the power of being wanted. wanted by someone who wasn’t you.

you blink too fast, too much, and everything burns. you saw it. you know what you saw. she was behind him, smug and glowing, like she’d just been fucked stupid in someone’s bathroom.

and rafe?rafe didn’t even look at you. and it shouldn’t matter. he wasn’t yours. you weren’t his. except for that night before—when he was.

when you were all tangled limbs and hushed moans and his mouth on your neck whispering “you’re so fucking pretty, fuck, i can’t stop”. when you felt wanted. chosen.

so yeah, you’re spiraling. because no matter what kelce or topper or anyone says, you remember the visual. her behind him. him not looking at you.

and all it screams is:he still fucked her. he still picked her. he still left you. you grip the comforter like it’s the only thing anchoring you to earth, but it’s not working.

your thoughts are spinning out too fast. how could you want someone who made you feel like that? how could you even be thinking about him when nate’s been perfect?

but none of that matters. because no matter how much you hate it—how much you hate yourself—you’re still picturing him with her.

her skin on his. her breathless laugh echoing through that hallway.

and worse, you’re wondering if he touched her like he touched you. if he whispered the same things in her ear. if his eyes closed and he pretended she was you.

god. fuck. you want to scream. you want to throw your phone across the room and pretend none of it ever happened.

but you already texted topper. and you already turned the phone off. so now it’s just you. you and the fucking aftermath of your own doing. well…not really. it takes two to fuck after all—but, in this case, there are 5 people involved—you, rafe, topper, nate and brianna. that’s a…pretty interesting gang bang if you ask me.

fuck. you press your palms into your eyes until you see static. like if you press hard enough, maybe you can erase the part of your brain that still wants him.

i can’t do this to nate. you repeat it like a prayer. i can’t. i won’t.

he’s been nothing but good. like actual good—not performative, not conditional, not the kind that only shows up in the dark. he lets you rant about dumb movies and lets you eat his fries even though you said you weren’t hungry. he likes your laugh. he respects your pace.

so why the fuck are you here, pacing your room with your phone off, trying to not picture rafe’s mouth on your neck?

you hate yourself for it. because nate deserves better. he deserves someone who isn’t torn up over a guy who made her feel disposable.

but was that real? or did you just take it that way? god, you don’t even know anymore. you don’t know anything.

you think am i in love with rafe? do i just miss the way he made me feel? am i just horny and nostalgic and fucked up from all of this?

because it’s easy to remember rafe through the filter of your favorite memories. his hoodie on your back. his laugh, low and soft, when he made fun of the way you smoked.his voice ‘you’re my favorite person, don’t tell Topper’

but maybe you’re just remembering the good shit. maybe your brain is romanticizing the chaos because nate is calm and real and steady and—“he’s not rafe.” you whisper it. you fucking hate that it slips out.

because even after all the crying, the blocking, the spiraling, the pretending, you’re still comparing him to a guy who walked down a staircase with another girl and didn’t even glance at you.

and now what? you’re gonna break a sweet guy’s heart because you might maybe still want the chaos? the possibility of something real with someone who never promised you anything?

you sit on your bed, breathing like you just ran a marathon. how the fuck are you even supposed to tell Nate? “hey, sorry, I’m emotionally constipated and still halfway in love with a guy who might not even feel the same?” yeah, no. solid plan.

maybe you won’t tell him. maybe you’ll wait until the guilt swallows you whole and he notices you flinch when he touches your knee.

or maybe— maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and the spiral will be gone.

but deep down you know better.you know the feeling doesn’t fade, it festers.

‘maybe i’m ovulating. maybe that’s all this is. hormones and memories and a little too much silence at night.’ you stare at the ceiling and try to rationalize it because god knows you can’t feel it anymore without wanting to rip your skin off.

maybe it’s not rafe. maybe it’s just the fact that you haven’t been touched in a while. not like that. not-grab you by the throat, fuck you until you forget your own name- touched.

not like the way rafe did when the world was quiet and the room was too dark and you were pretending not to love it. maybe you just miss his dick. not his personality. you shift in bed, hating yourself more with every passing second.

it happens sometimes, right? when you’re sex deprived and lonely and your body just wants what it used to know. familiarity. friction. a little rough around the edges.

and nate… nate is so sweet. too sweet, maybe.but he’s got hands. he wants you. and you’re starting to think maybe you should just let him. just once. get it out of your system like some fucked up cleanse.

maybe if you fuck nate, rafe will finally leave your head. maybe your body will stop aching for someone who never even looked at you twice when he had someone else’s lip gloss on his neck.

maybe if you get off to someone new, you’ll stop craving the memory of rafe’s mouth on your collarbone like it was the first prayer he ever learned.

but you don’t move. you don’t text nate. you don’t reach out. because the truth—the one you’re avoiding—is ugly. you don’t want any dick. you want his. and no amount of logic or orgasms is gonna change that.

you start pacing again, like that’ll knock some sense into your brain. “okay,” you whisper to no one but the string lights and your own spiraling reflection in the dark window glass. “okay. i have two choices.”

you hold up one finger “one… i tell nate it’s not working. i come clean, ruin something good, and go back to wanting someone who clearly doesn’t want me.”

second finger “two… i stop thinking about rafe. i let nate be good to me. i let it happen. i stop being so… emotionally constipated and just move the fuck on.”

your hands drop. you stare at your bed like it’s supposed to answer you.

and then “…or,” you say, bitterly. “three. i can go fuck myself. the better version.”

you scoff under your breath and flop down on the bed“that’s the one, honestly.”

you lie there a while. staring at the ceiling. every breath heavy with guilt and want and noise that doesn’t shut up no matter how much you will it to. you try to think about nate. his laugh. how he always opens the car door for you. how he lets you pick the movie even when you choose the worst ones. how he’s gentle. warm. so easy to like. easy to trust.

but all that comes up is rafe. and how he was the one who taught you to shoot a bottle cap off a fence post with your eyes closed. how he made you laugh when you were pissed. how he used to call you at 1 a.m. just to say “i’m outside, come sit in the truck with me.”

he used to listen. really listen. your heart thuds once, real low and stupid. you reach for your phone. there’s notifications. texts from nate, topper, even sarah. you ignore them all. you go straight to his name.

that little block label sitting there like it’s daring you to press it. unblock. you hover. stare. don’t. your brain begs you.

but your thumb moves anyway. unblock.

no message. no call. no story view or accidental like. just the simple, dumb, fucked up act of unblocking rafe cameron.

your screen goes black again. you toss the phone across the bed like it’s contagious. and suddenly your chest feels tight. like you just handed the devil your spare key again.

you stare at the black screen like it owes you something. like it should’ve stopped you. you chew your bottom lip, dig your nails into the blanket, whisper “well… fuck my life.”

and then you do it. the most absolutely, undeniably, stupid thing you could ever do.

you open the text thread—after that unblocking. you type: come to my street corner

no emoji. no punctuation. no explanation. you hit send. your heart hits your ribs.

you launch off the bed like you just set it on fire, racing to your mirror. you grab the first perfume bottle in reach—some overly sweet body spray that smells like veeery bad decisions and sugar—and drench yourself. literally coat your neck, your wrists, your hair

you fumble for the breath spray too. psst-psst-psst. probably way too much. like it matters.

your phone’s face down on the bed. your knees are bouncing. you are pacing. spiraling. spiriting yourself into hell. and he hasn’t even read the message yet.

ding. one vibration and it’s done. just his name. the notification banner glows like a devil grinning in the dark.

->rafe cameron: 15

fifteen. fifteen fucking minutes. and he’ll be on your street. on your corner. you didn’t even say why.

your stomach caves like it got punched.

your phone is hot in your hand, your palm sweating. you check the time. 1:42am. this is how people end up in therapy.

you look down at yourself and mutter, “oh my god,” because you forgot—you’re literally in pajamas. not the hot kind either. not silk, not lace, not low cut oops i didn’t know this was seductive type.

no. just shorts you probably bought from target with a faded waistband and a worn out drawstring. and a t-shirt the size of a parachute, probably rafe’s. it says something dumb on it like “Outer Banks Surf Club” and has a bleach stain near the hem. it smells like detergent your perfume. you slip into the hall like you’re sneaking out of church. quiet, quick. your dad’s asleep.

the air outside is warm—muggy, thick with that summer sweat feeling. you’re barefoot on the porch for two seconds before you dart back in, grab your slippers. pink. fuzzy. humiliating.

you check your reflection in the microwave door before slipping out.

you’re out there now. on the corner. arms crossed. your heart louder than the cicadas. this is ridiculous. so ridiculous. you whisper to yourself “what am i doing. oh my god. what the fuck am i doing.”

and then you see the headlights.

…next part || previous taglist |

||note->u can comment here or on my taglist post if you want to be tagged in next part!!

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @babygoddam @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @addyleigh @lalaloopsieparty @emeloyy @eunivalaa @belle101200 @ennycutie @maybankslover @zuccheromorena @senatorpadmeamidala @swhistledown @imaginethatblog @maybejj @f1petra @rosetintmworld

“okay, party’s over for you,” rafe’s voice cut in, warm at your ear.

you squinted up at him, grinning instantly. “rafe!” you practically sang his name, the sound dragging a faint smirk out of him.

“yeah, it’s me. c’mon,” he murmured, fingers curling around your wrist with that quiet authority he used when you were past the point of making decisions.

you giggled, leaning in close like you were about to tell him the world’s biggest secret. “did you know topper—” you hiccuped “is older now?”

he just stared at you for a beat, then huffed a laugh. “fascinating. let’s go.”

and somehow, between the crowd and the front door, he managed to get you out without losing his grip on you once.

the drive to tannyhill was quiet except for you rambling about “this one time in third grade” while rafe kept one hand on the wheel and the other steady on your thigh. he didn’t say much—just hummed, smirked when you got dramatic, and once leaned over at a red light to fix the strap of your dress when it slipped off your shoulder.

now, you’re in his room. tannyhill’s sleeping, lights are low, and you’re sprawled across his bed while he kneels to tug your heels off.

“shhh,” he whispered when you giggled too loud.

“shhh yourself,” you shot back, poking his chest when he leaned over you.

he smirked. “you’re lucky you’re cute when you’re annoying.”

“you think i’m cute?” you teased, eyes wide and teasing even as your words slurred

rafe’s hands stilled for a second, his gaze lingering before he rolled his eyes with a grin. “go to sleep, drunk girl.”

you let him pull the blanket over you, but the moment he tried to move away, your hand shot out to grab his shirt “stay,” you mumbled.

and he did —slipping in beside you, lying on his side so you could curl into his chest. his arms went around you automatically, the kind of hold that made you feel both claimed and safe.

“you smell like tequila,” he muttered into your hair.

“you smell like…you,” you whispered back, half asleep and smiling.

and if his hand tightened on your hip and he pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, well, no one needed to know but you two.

you lie tangled in rafe’s arms, the room quiet except for your shaky breaths. then, out of nowhere, you gasp softly “oh no…” you whisper, voice breaking.

rafe looks down at you, brows knitting with concern. “what’s wrong, baby?”

you swallow hard, voice trembling as the floodgates open. “it’s nate… he’s alone now.”

rafe’s eyes darken, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to explain “wait! i don’t like him,don’t think that” you say quickly, voice cracking, “not at all. but he’s all alone and that’s what kills me. it sucks thinking about him with no one.” you blink back tears, feeling raw and exposed. “and here i am, with you, feeling everything i shouldn’t.”

rafe tightens his hold, voice soft but firm “you don’t have to feel guilty for wanting what’s real.”

he strokes your hair, voice thick with tenderness. “you chose me, and i’m not going anywhere.”

you press your cheek to his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, letting the messiness of it all wash over you.

“i don’t want to be the reason he’s hurting,” you admit quietly.

rafe sighs, kissing your forehead. “we’re not perfect, but we’re us. and that’s enough.”

the booze hits harder, words spilling out before you can stop them “i just feel so bad,” you mumble, voice thick and slurring slightly. “like… i led nate on. i didn’t mean to—i swear. i never wanted to hurt him. but i did. and now he’s alone because of me. fuck.”

tears start to sting your eyes, slipping down your cheeks without warning. you hiccup, voice cracking. “i’m such a shitty person. how do i even live with this?”

rafe shifts to cup your face gently, wiping the tears with his thumb. “hey, hey, don’t do this to yourself.”

you sob quietly, leaning into him, and he holds you closer, whispering, “i’m here. i’m here, baby.”

“oh nooo, rafe, you know i don’t like him though,” you slur, voice suddenly lighter, teasing “like, i mean, that’s why i’m with you, right? ‘cause i chose you.”

rafe’s jaw tightens for a split second, a flicker of jealousy sparking in his eyes before he masks it with a crooked, possessive grin “damn right you did,” he growls low, pulling you closer. “don’t you dare forget whose girl you are.”

“i just—” you hiccup, leaning back enough to look at him with glassy eyes, “i just feel… so bad for nate.”

rafe’s jaw tightens immediately. “why are you thinking about nate right now?”

you blink like the question confused you, your lips parting in a slow, lazy smile. “i’m not thinking about him like that,” you giggle, swatting at his chest. “god, nooo. ew, rafe.”

he narrows his eyes, still not entirely convinced. “you sure? ‘cause you’ve been going on about him for like five minutes, baby.”

you shake your head dramatically, hair falling in your face, “no, listen to me—” you grip his shirt like you’re about to tell him the secret to the universe, “i’m saying… we should find him a girlfriend.”

rafe pauses, staring at you like you just spoke in another language. “…what?”

“yeah!” you nod so hard you almost fall backward “like, someone amazing. someone hot. someone who’s so perfect for him that he’ll never, ever, ever look at me again.” you wave your hand in the air for emphasis. “problem solved.”

and just like that, everything calms in rafe’s mind. the tight coil of jealousy that had been twisting in his chest since you started rambling loosens instantly. because yes, what better way to make sure nate never comes between you two again than to find him someone else? someone to distract him, someone who isn’t you.

he leans back, one arm tucked behind his head as he smirks down at you. “so that’s your plan? matchmake for the guy you dumped?”

you gasp, offended. “i didn’t dump him! we weren’t even… you know… official.”

“sure.” rafe’s grin is smug now. “still sounds like a guilty conscience, though.”

you shove him weakly, whining, “raaaaafe. i’m with you. that’s the whole point, dummy.”

his hand catches yours before it lands on his chest again, holding it there, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “you’re with me,” he repeats, like he’s letting the words settle into his bones.

you nod, suddenly all soft and sincere in a way that makes his heart ache. “i chose you.”

he studies you for a second, the drunk pout, the sincerity bleeding through your hazy expression. “damn right you did,” he mutters, tugging you closer until your face is buried in his neck.

“so,” you mumble against his skin, “should we do it? find him a girlfriend?”

“maybe.” rafe’s voice is casual, but in his head he’s already running through every possible candidate who wouldn’t be a threat. “only if i get final approval.”

you snort, “oh my god, you’re insane.”

“nah,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “just making sure no one ever gets the chance to take you from me again.”

you grin against his throat, drunk and warm and safe. “okay, possessive much.”

“yep,” he says without hesitation, pulling the blanket over both of you, “and you love it.”

you’re still half on top of him, your leg thrown over his waist, babbling about something entirely unrelated—how topper’s cake was too dry, how sarah’s dress was so sparkly you could “see it from outer space,” how someone at the party had the audacity to say your hair looked “fun.”

rafe’s just watching you with that lazy, fond smirk, letting your words wash over him until he cuts in, “y’know, baby… we have to tell people about our relationship for that whole nate plan to work.”

you pause mid-ramble, blinking at him like he just told you the moon isn’t real. “wait… our relationship?” you point between the two of you dramatically. “we’re together?? like together together? official???”

his smirk grows. “yeah. i was planning on asking you tomorrow, actually.” he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. “but you’ll forget this by tomorrow anyway.”

your mouth falls open, scandalized. “nooo i won’ttt,” you drawl, dragging the word out like it’s a promise

“mmhm,” he hums, clearly not believing you. “you’re gonna wake up tomorrow and be like, ‘what plan? what nate? what boyfriend?’”

you gasp, gripping his shirt like the dramatics are necessary. “i will sooo remember!”

he laughs under his breath, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “we’ll see, pretty girl.”

you narrow your eyes playfully, mumbling,“you underestimate drunk me.”

“no,” rafe murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, “i know drunk you way too well.”

you giggle, nuzzling closer to his chest, and start rambling again—this time about what your hypothetical couple name would be if you were official.

he just keeps smiling, because in his mind? you already are.

he watches you drift, the way your lashes get heavy and your mouth goes soft, words slurring into half finished thoughts that tumble against his chest and fade. your leg is hooked over his waist, your fingers are still fisted in his shirt like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that sleep is winning. he doesn’t move. won’t. if his arm goes numb under your shoulders, then his arm goes numb. he’ll take it.

his brain is loud in the quiet. not the old kind of loud—the white noise panic, the static of too much and not enough—but a steady drum that keeps saying don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up.

he promised he’d do better and, for once, he has receipts. three dates. real ones. the kind you talk about later. he still sees them like photographs: you on that rooftop; you at the marina laughing into the collar of his jacket when the wind kicked up; you at the drive in, legs across his lap, a bucket of popcorn that ended up on the floor because he was looking at you more than the screen. he made reservations. he showed up on time. he kept his phone down. he asked questions and actually waited for the answers. he paid attention. he was present. it felt like cheating the system—apparently doing the bare minimum required intention, and intention, it turns out, is a muscle. he likes how it feels when he uses it on you.

and tomorrow… tomorrow is the plan. the big, stupid, perfect plan. he’s replayed it so many times he could storyboard it: the place, the hour (gold light, late afternoon), the song (already queued), the words (simple, no grand speeches. he knows he’ll get in his own way if he tries to be poetic). a question, a little box, not that box—he’s not insane—but something pretty that says: i want this to be official. i want to be seen with you, claimed by you, known for you. no more “we’re just hanging out.” no more smirks from kelce, no more side eyes from the island set. he wants to ruin the secrecy and make it ordinary on purpose. ordinary sounds like freedom.

he’s kept other promises too. no pills. no powder. he flushed what needed flushing and blocked what needed blocking. the itch still whispers sometimes—late, when the house creaks and the old habits pace the halls of his head—but it’s quieter with you sleeping on his chest. weed? yeah, okay, sometimes. but only with you. he won’t chase numb alone anymore. he’s done bargaining with ghosts.

no other girls. that one surprised him with how easy it was. desire used to feel like a reflex; now it feels like a compass that only points at you. he doesn’t even clock other faces the same. it’s not pious, it’s not effort, it’s simply… over. like a switch flipped and the room went dark everywhere that isn’t your mouth, your laugh, your yes. he likes the smallness of it—how his appetite narrowed to a single plate. it makes him less bored with himself.

he still has moments where his nerves jolt like a cut wire, where he feels his body gearing up to do what it’s always done: pull back first, burn the bridge before anyone else can set a match. that old superstition—leave them before they leave you—lives under his tongue like a prayer he doesn’t say anymore. when he feels it rise, he thinks about those two weeks. the longest two weeks of his life, not because time stretched, but because it collapsed. days folding in on themselves with nothing inside. he remembers hearing your laugh in someone else’s video, seeing your name in a group chat he wasn’t opening, spotting your shadow on a street he didn’t turn down. and nate. nate in a hoodie opening doors and offering peace like a gentleman at a war he didn’t start. rafe never hated him. he hated what nate proved: that it’s possible to be chosen by you in a world where rafe isn’t brave.

the fear of love evaporated right there. not cleanly, not like steam; more like a storm blew through his chest and took the roof and most of the walls, and when the thunder left, what remained was stupidly simple: he’s not scared to love you. he’s scared you could stop loving him. that’s the only fear left. it’s honest in a way that sobers him better than cold water ever did. when he feels himself start to pull away, he puts a hand on your knee or your neck or the small of your back and tells the reflex to sit. it listens. you breathe; he stays.

he thinks about telling people. he’s the one who brought it up—wild, considering how much of his life has been an exercise in appearances. but now the secrecy feels like a lie told against himself. claiming you out loud isn’t about a show; it’s about removing the exits. if everyone knows, there’s nowhere easy to run when things get loud. he wants that. wants the accountability of eyes on him that say: you said you’d be different. be different.

he thinks about his family sleeping down the hall, the old house holding its breath around them. secrets are a currency inside these walls; he’s been rich in the wrong kind too long. eventually, they’ll know. he’s not thrilled about the conversation, but he’s not afraid of it either. he’ll take the looks, the tight smiles, the careful questions. he’ll take anything, really, if it ends with you at this breakfast table, if it ends with your mug next to his, if it ends with you rolling your eyes when he burns the toast again.

you hiccup in your sleep, a tiny sound, and your fingers flex in his shirt like you’re making sure he’s not a dream. his chest aches in that slow, heavy way that means he’s grateful and doesn’t have language for it. he tilts his chin and kisses your hairline. you smell like sugar and tequila and whatever shampoo he bought because you offhandedly said you liked it once. he didn’t even realize he grabbed it at the store until he got home and laughed at himself for being gone.

the plan for nate—your drunken matchmaking scheme—makes him smile into your hair. the jealous grip in his gut loosened the second you said it. not because he wants to manage nate’s heart, but because it told him where your head is: forward. with him. you weren’t pining, you were tidying. he can work with that. hell, he’s already thinking of people who are kind and bright but nothing like you. he’ll be generous about it—maybe for the first and only time.

his thumb draws idle circles on your hipbone under the blanket. the room is so quiet he can hear the clock down the hall and the occasional whisper of the house settling. he counts those, not sheep. he thinks about your date tomorrow and the way you’re going to pretend to be shocked even though tonight’s drunk confession means you’ll half remember.

he hopes you remember anyway. he hopes you let him do it properly—awkward, earnest, completely uncool. he hopes you let him be corny for you. he hopes you say yes and then tease him for shaking.

he inventories himself the way he does before a storm: what’s secure, what needs fixing, what he can lose without losing the whole place.

he’s steadier than he’s ever been. not cured, not sainted. just steady. he has a list on his phone labeled “be better” that no one knows about: text her back; be on time; no lies; apologize first; hands gentle when she’s tired; ask what she needs; know what she needs; eat; sleep; breathe; repeat. it’s stupid. it helps.

you mumble his name in your sleep. just once. like a question that already knows the answer. he closes his eyes and answers it anyway, a whisper into your hair “i’m here.”

he feels the future reach for him then, not in some dramatic flood, but like a hand under water finding his and lacing fingers, tugging. ordinary things: boring saturday errands, two toothbrushes in the holder, a playlist you argue over and never fix, your jacket on the back of his chair, your necklace on his nightstand, your name on his tongue in the morning when his voice is still cracked.

fear shows up at the doorway like a shadow and then backs off, bored, because there’s nothing to feed on here. he’s already decided.

tomorrow he’ll ask you. tomorrow he’ll take the picture that starts the new album. tomorrow he’ll start telling people, start saying “my girlfriend” and watch it rewire him in public. tomorrow he’ll hand himself the one thing he always thought he wasn’t built for: something good that lasts. tonight, he listens to you breathe and lets the thought settle like weight on a boat. stabilizing, not sinking.

you twitch, sigh, burrow closer, your knee nudging his ribs. he smiles at the ceiling like an idiot. somewhere, the old version of him laughs and calls him soft. he doesn’t even disagree. softness feels like proof. softness feels like the opposite of empty. softness feels like your sleepy mouth, your tangled hair, your stubborn little grip on his shirt that says don’t move.

he won’t. not tonight. not tomorrow. not first.

he’s learned things about you without you even realizing it. not just the easy stuff—favorite color, favorite drink, the way you always pick the marshmallows out of cereal before eating the rest—but the quiet things. the little details you probably don’t even notice about yourself. like how you rub your thumb over your bottom lip when you’re nervous, or how you kick your heel lightly against the floor when you’re excited about something but trying to play it cool. how you tilt your head just slightly when you’re thinking hard, like you’re listening for an answer only you can hear.

he notices the way your voice changes depending on who you’re talking to. how with your friends, you’re loud and quick, words spilling over each other. but with him… you slow down. you let silences hang, comfortable, like you don’t have to rush. he knows that’s rare for you.

he knows how you smell after a night out-perfume and faint smoke, the kind that clings to your hair until morning. he knows the face you make when you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly flattered, and the exact laugh that means you’re actually happy, not just being polite.

he keeps these things like they’re secrets, not because he wants to hide them from you, but because they feel like proof. proof that he’s paying attention, that you’re not just some passing thing to him. he’s been down that road before—people who came and went, names he barely remembered. but you? he could write a book.

and maybe that’s part of his plan too. not just to ask you to be his, but to keep proving—every single day after—that he deserves whatever answer you give him. he’s not stupid enough to think you’re easy to keep. you could leave if you wanted to. so he’s gonna make sure you never want to.

he’s already started, hasn’t he? three dates, all better than the last. never the same place twice. he listens when you talk about what you like, then actually gives it to you. he’s careful with you in a way he’s never been careful with anyone; measured touches, not because he’s scared of breaking you, but because he wants every one of them to mean something.

and in his head, he’s already planning more. nights where he’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been. mornings where he’ll wake up before you just to watch you breathe, to get that feeling in his chest that says yeah, this is mine.

he’s not calling it love yet. not out loud. but it’s there. it’s in the way he keeps finding excuses to touch you. it’s in the way he’s willing to be seen with you, to have people know. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not looking back—like you’re the one thing in the room that matters.

and if you asked him right now what he wanted most? it wouldn’t be the house, the money, the parties. it’d be for you to still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day after that until you both run out of days. he’s not saying it. not yet. but he’s already living like he does.

you’re dead asleep now, face tucked into his chest like you’ve been there your whole life. your arm’s thrown lazily over his ribs, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like even in sleep you can’t let him go. and you won’t remember it, but your dreams are all about him—how his hands feel when they hold your face, how his voice sounds when he says your name low like it’s only meant for you, how his mouth tastes when he’s kissing you slow and deep.

and it’s almost funny, because he’s lying here wide awake, dreaming about you in his own way. same bed, same room, same tangle of limbs under the covers, and the two of you are doing the same exact thing—loving each other without daring to call it that yet.

if anyone asked, neither of you would say it. you’d smile, shrug, change the subject. but you live like it. you breathe like it.

it’s in the way you chose him, even when you could’ve chosen easy, chosen safe. should’ve known it then. should’ve known it the second you were standing in front of his door, asking to be let back in.

and he—he’s been choosing you every single day for the past two weeks, even when you had a “boyfriend” in name only. even when it would’ve been easier to cut his losses, move on, find someone else to fill the space. but he didn’t. he waited. he stayed. he made sure you knew, without ever saying it, that you were still his.

so now here you are—his arm wrapped tight around your waist, your leg slung over his like you belong there. the night’s quiet except for your breathing, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself you’re dreaming about him too.

except he doesn’t have to convince himself. he knows you are. because if your waking moments are full of him, there’s no way your dreams aren’t too.

✵ taglist ✵ main masterlist ✵ series masterlist

tags- @rafesbabygirlx @prettytheyswag @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @babygoddam @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @lalaloopsieparty @emeloyy @eunivalaa @belle101200 @ennycutie @zuccheromorena @senatorpadmeamidala-blog @swhistledown @imaginethatblog @f1petra @rosetintmworld @luvvrafey @marinrscomplex @eyve-5 @allthoughtsmindfull @kaydennnn @rafecameronswhoore @drewstarkeyspecs @electronicladystudent @ymnizuh @heycjjj @cataliveordead @itzzjulie @d00si @nonbeliever1 @bigjuli444 @rgrimesr @berryonasummerevening @abireichstein @whosyourmommy69 @macbaetwo @vdotcom @x-angel-o

“and if you’re sooo clever and funny, why are you on your own tonight?” you asked him that one night at the country club, the first time you two ever really talked, first time you actually saw rafe. not the cameron, just rafe. only rafe.

he was so entertaining, so very looking… but he was sleeping alone—every night. all nights. not just sleeping, everything really. from eating to chilling. he’s allll alone.

it takes strength to be gentle and kind when people crush you, mind and soul. but if that’s really true, you are the strongest of them all. because being rafe’s only belief meant watching him suddenly become mean and angry, cold and aggressive…destroying himself and dragging you along…and you let him. god, you let him. you let him ruin you with those hands, the same ones that used to hold your wrists like bruised fruit, like if he squeezed too hard he’d break you open and spill whatever was left inside. and maybe that’s what he wanted, because maybe he knew you were rotting from the inside out, too.

but what neither of you said—not back then, not when he stopped answering your calls, not when you stopped showing up—was that you were both already broken before you found each other. you just fit your cracks together like puzzle pieces, thinking it was healing. thinking it was love.

you remember the last night you saw him clearly, like it’s stitched into your memory in blood. he was sitting on the hood of his truck outside your house, hoodie over his head, knuckles already bruised from a fight you didn’t ask about. you didn’t need to.

you didn’t say anything when you sat beside him. just let the silence fill your lungs like smoke.

and he looked at you, really looked at you, the way he used to, and said, “you’re already fucking gone, aren’t you?”

you didn’t answer. maybe because you were. maybe you already had one foot out the door, your heart left in his hands weeks before. maybe you were just too tired to keep bleeding for someone who never stopped cutting.

you told yourself you were doing the right thing. you told yourself that leaving was mercy. but the truth is you couldn’t carry both your pain and his anymore.

so you walked away.

and now..now you’re standing in front of the mirror, smearing on mascara that won’t last the night, trying not to look like you’ve been crying. sarah’s birthday party starts in an hour.

sarah, whose name still tastes like family. whose party rafe will be at.

you almost didn’t go. you almost said screw it and stayed in bed with the guilt gnawing at your ribs like a starved animal.

but sarah texted you this morning. “i need you there. please.”

so you’re going. because it’s her. because you owe her that much. because, maybe—maybe—you want to see him.

you tell yourself you just want closure. but really, you want to see if he still looks at you like he used to. like you were a lifeline he didn’t ask for but clung to anyway.

you want to know if you still matter.

your diary is still at his house. you forgot. but rafe didn’t. it’s under the pillow on the side of his bed that was once yours, still dented in like your body made a permanent shape there. like the mattress itself is grieving.

and he reads it every night. not like he’s snooping, not like he’s prying—more like he’s trying to keep you alive. like if he stops reading, the last version of you that loved him will disappear for good.

he doesn’t touch the newer pages. can’t bring himself to. he only reads the old ones—the ones where you still wrote his name like it was your safety, like you believed in him. where your words didn’t tremble. where you wrote about his laugh, how it cracked open something buried in you. how you used to count the freckles under his eyes when he was asleep. he memorized every line. he could quote them like scripture.

you never knew how much you meant to him. he never told you the right way. never said how your voice was the only one that could talk him down, that some nights, when everything got too loud, all he wanted was to lay in your lap and forget who he was. forget what he did. forget everything but you.

but you left. and he let you.

and now he reads your diary with shaking hands and a cigarette burning a hole in the nightstand. he swears he can still hear your laugh sometimes. in the quiet. in the cracks.

he keeps your hair tie around his wrist like it’s some kind of lifeline. he never wears it in public—just at night, just when he’s alone, like it’s a secret between the two of you. like you’re still his. like he didn’t break you. like you didn’t break him.

you’re going to be at sarah’s party tonight. he knows. he heard her talking about it, saw the texts.

and suddenly he’s seventeen again, nervous and stupid and in love with a girl who never made him feel like he was too much.

he’s going to see you. and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you look happy. if you don’t look at him at all. he wants you to hate him. wants you to scream. cry. shove him. see him. anything but nothing. because if you walk past him like he never mattered—that might just kill him.

you never knew how in love rafe was with you. you were stuck on the best friend title—said it like it was sacred, like it was enough. like calling him anything else would shatter the fragile thing you two had built between the long nights and shared secrets, the bruised hearts and half-meant jokes.

but it wasn’t enough for him. it never was. he never said it, not out loud, but he showed you. in all the ways he knew how.

like how he always walked on the side of the road closest to traffic. how he memorized your coffee order and kept napkins in the glove compartment because you always spilled. how he let you crash in his bed after fights with your mom, even if it meant sleeping on the floor and staring at the ceiling all night just to be near you. how he kept extra tampons in his backpack because you’d forget, every month, without fail.

he showed you. he tried.

but you didn’t see it for what it was. because it didn’t look like love the way you’d been taught. and it didn’t sound like it either—not when rafe’s version of love came from a house where yelling was more common than hugging, where his father taught him that softness was weakness and that needing someone made you small.

so rafe loved you the way he understood. quietly. protectively. with a desperation he didn’t know how to name. he brought you candy after your tests, let you cry into his chest, kissed your forehead every day—but never crossed the line. not until you were already slipping away.

and by then, it was too late. you were chasing some other version of love, some safe and structured thing that made sense in your head.

and rafe didn’t make sense. rafe felt like chaos. like stormwater and shattered glass. like a need so deep it scared you. so you ignored it. you called him your best friend and left it at that. but it gutted him every time you said it.

every time you turned to him with those soft, oblivious eyes, thanking him for being there—for being the one constant—and he had to smile through the ache in his ribs. because he was constant. he would’ve left the island, his friends and family if you even hinted that you wanted that. and you never even knew. now all he’s got is your diary and an ache that won’t quit. and all those things he never said rot behind his teeth like poison.

and tonight, when you show up to sarah’s party, you’ll hug her, and laugh, and you’ll probably look like the kind of girl who’s doing just fine. and rafe will be standing in the corner with a glass of whiskey and a fake smile, pretending he’s not watching your every move. pretending he didn’t love you so hard it hollowed him out. pretending he doesn’t still dream about the life he never got to have—because you never saw him that way.

but god, he saw you. and he loved you. more than anyone else ever would.

hell is loving you in his sleep and waking up alone. waking up to a cold pillow where your cheek used to rest. to silence where your laugh used to be. to nothing. no warmth. no you.

and the worst part? sometimes, in his dreams, you still love him back. sometimes, you’re still sixteen and you’re in his truck, legs on the dash, music low, and you’re humming along to a song he hated just because you liked it.

and he looks over at you—god, he loved looking at you—and you say his name so simple, so you. just rafe. not cameron. not fuck up. not project. just his name, soft and sure.

he wakes up gasping. every time. and he used to turn to coke when that happened. used to tear through drawers and lock bathroom doors and sink into whatever high would blur your face in his head for five minutes.

because you were his escape before all that. you were his first one. you were the one who sat on the floor with him after his dad screamed at him for hours. the one who didn’t flinch when he broke down, when his breath stuttered and his shoulders shook and his pride dissolved in your hoodie.

he cried on your shoulder. you never told anyone.

and when you cried on his? when your mom slammed the door or your boyfriend didn’t text back or you just felt too much all at once—he held you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

you’d bury your face into his chest and whisper “don’t let go, okay?” and he never did. he never would have.

but you let go of him and now he’s stuck with a thousand memories and no one to tell them to. a thousand versions of your voice in his head and none of them real.

rafe never learned how to love gently—but with you, he tried. and for a while, it was enough. but now, the space where you used to be is louder than any fight. darker than any high. meaner than any voice in his head.

and hell? hell is still dreaming about holding you and waking up with nothing but the echo of your name in his throat.

sarah nearly screams when she sees you. “oh my god—no. no way.” her bare feet slap against the grass as she runs full speed, throwing her arms around you so hard it knocks you back a step. “you actually came. you’re here.”

you barely get a word out before she’s talking again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“this is seriously the best gift ever. ever,” she says, eyes wide, clutching your hands like you might disappear. “like screw the party, screw the cake. you showing up? best present. i win.”

you laugh, already tearing up as she hugs you again. she smells like vanilla and bonfire smoke.

“you look so good,” she gushes, pulling back to take you in. “like—seriously? i missed you so much. it’s not even funny. you’re like..my older sister.”

your chest tightens at that. you’re not her sister. not by blood, not anymore by title. but the way she’s looking at you? it’s like nothing ever changed.

“i’m not gonna cry,” sarah says, fanning her face. “wait, yes i am. i don’t care. you don’t get it. you being here means everything. mom asked me what i wanted for my birthday and i didn’t say anything but all i was thinking was ‘i wish she would come.’ and now you did.”

you smile, heart aching in the best and worst way. “i missed you too,” you whisper.

“i thought you weren’t gonna come,” she says, eyes soft. “i thought… i thought things were just gonna stay the way they were. like, forever.”

you shake your head. “i could never miss your eighteenth, sar. never.”

she beams, wrapping her arms around your waist like she’s six again. like she doesn’t care who’s watching. “you’re stuck with me again,” she says. “whether you like it or not.”

you liked hearing that, because no matter what happened between you and rafe, you were always her girl.

you reach into your bag, fingers brushing velvet, heart already full from the way she’s looking at you—like you hung the stars just to show up tonight. “i got you something,” you say, pulling out the little pink box tied with thin gold ribbon. “it’s not much, but…”

“shut up,” sarah gasps, clutching her chest like she’s about to faint. “you brought a gift too? are you trying to kill me? emotional murder on my birthday?”

you laugh, pressing the box into her hands. “open it.”

she rips the ribbon with a squeal, tearing the paper so fast you can’t even warn her to be careful. her hands go still when she lifts the lid and sees what’s inside.

a thin gold necklace, delicate and simple. heart shaped locket, tiny etched stars around the edge. sarah blinks, jaw slightly open, like her brain is short circuiting. “no way.”

she opens the locket with shaking fingers. inside is the photo—you and her on the beach, sunburnt and tangled up in each other, cheeks pressed together, smiling like the world had never touched you.

“no way!” she yells again, louder this time. people glance over, but she doesn’t care. “this is—i’m gonna—i am crying, oh my god.”

you can’t help but grin, watching her blink rapidly, trying to stop tears from ruining her makeup “do you remember that day?” you ask, softly. “that was the night we dared top to jump in the ocean fully clothed.”

“he did it!” sarah bursts out laughing, clutching the necklace to her chest. “and then blamed you when he lost his phone. that was the best day of my life, i swear.”

she throws her arms around you again, necklace still in one hand. “i’m never taking this off,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “like, ever. you could pry it off my cold, dead body.”

“morbid, but i love the energy.”

she pulls back just enough to hold the locket up to the light, grinning through watery lashes. “you’re my person,” she says suddenly, with that wild honesty only sarah can pull off. “you always were. i don’t care what happened. you’ll always be my sister.”

your throat tightens. your eyes sting. you smile, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before the tears can fall. “yeah,” you say softly, voice catching. “you too, sarah. always.”

her smile gets impossibly bigger, cheeks glowing under the string lights. she slips the necklace on right then and there, fumbling with the clasp until you help her fasten it, fingers brushing the back of her neck like it’s still familiar. when it’s on, she holds the locket in her palm like it’s something holy.

you look around for a second, eyes scanning the yard, and then glance back at her. “hey, where’s wheezie? figured she’d be here causing chaos by now.”

sarah snorts. “she was here for five minutes, stole three cupcakes, called top a loser, and left.”

you laugh. “iconic.”

“seriously. she said ‘happy birthday, sarah’ like she was being forced at gunpoint and then vanished. she’s thriving.”

“tell her i asked about her.”

“she’ll pretend she doesn’t care, but she will,” sarah says with a little smirk. “she still uses that tote bag you gave her, by the way. the one with the little frogs on it.”

“that thing was cute,” you say, smiling softly. “figured it’d be her vibe.”

sarah links her arm through yours like she’s never letting go again. “you coming to hang out inside?” she asks, already tugging you toward the porch.“everyone’s gonna lose their minds when they see you.”

you hesitate for half a second—but then you nod. “yeah,” you whisper. “let’s go.”

rafe sees you the moment you step inside. and his breath..it just stops. like his lungs forgot how to work, like his body doesn’t know how to be around you anymore, only how to ache.

you’re standing in the doorway beside sarah, laughing at something she says, wearing that cute little dress in a color he’s sure he’s seen on you before but somehow it looks brand new now. your platform sandals click softly on the floor, and there’s a necklace around your throat with a tiny cherry charm that catches the light every time you move.

he doesn’t mean to stare. but he does. he always did. it’s like his mind slows everything down just to take you in—every movement, every blink, every second he’s not allowed to have back.

and then he watches his dad move toward you. ward. followed by rose, then lily—his and sarah’s mom. you don’t even look surprised. just a little breathless, maybe, when they reach you. when lily wraps you up in the kind of hug rafe hasn’t felt in years. when rose touches your arm, soft and careful like she’s worried you’ll vanish. when ward’s hand rests on your shoulder and he says something that makes you press your lips together like you’re trying not to cry.

and they’re all looking at you like you’re still family. like you never left. like you never broke someone in this house clean in half.

rafe’s standing across the room with a drink in his hand he can’t taste, locked in place, watching you shine in the middle of a world that used to be his.

and all he can think is god, she’s even more beautiful now. god, he’s never wanted anything more.

not a world that used to be his—scratch that. you were his world.

and standing there now, with the lights casting that soft gold halo around you, that cherry charm resting right where his fingers used to, that easy laugh slipping from your mouth like it still belonged in his memory…

he realizes nothing ever replaced you. not the parties. not the noise. not the girls. not the drugs. nothing even came close.

because it was never just about missing you. it was missing himself with you. the version of him that only existed in your presence—the one who knew how to smile for real. the one who wasn’t always angry. the one who didn’t wake up aching.

he watches lily tuck your hair behind your ear like you’re hers again. watches ward nod with that proud little smile he rarely gives anyone. watches rose whisper something that makes you laugh, that kind of laugh he used to earn when he got it right.

and all he can think is, that should’ve been our life. not a scene in passing. not something he watches like a stranger.

it should’ve been him beside you. hand on your back. mouth against your ear. your cherry necklace tangled in his fingers while he told you how beautiful you looked—just for him.

instead, he stands frozen, surrounded by people, and still entirely alone.

you hadn’t expected this. you’d prepared for awkward hellos, stiff smiles, maybe a few polite nods across the room. but the moment you stepped inside, it was like the air shifted. like everything cracked open just a little.

ward’s hand was the first to find your shoulder. warm. welcoming “look at you,” he said softly, eyes almost… proud. “it’s been too long.”

and when rose came next, arms gentle, perfume the same as always, you nearly forgot how to speak. she brushed your cheek with her thumb and whispered, “you look so grown. like the world never touched you.”

but it did. it touched you. broke you in places no one here can see.

still, when lily pulled you into her chest and didn’t let go right away, when she called you baby like she used to—like you never left—you let your eyes fall closed.

because it felt like home. because part of you was still aching for this.

you’re laughing at something ward says, something about that one summer sarah made him take you and her tubing and you nearly flew into a tree, when the sound of feet slapping hardwood pulls your attention.

“you’re here!” wheezie.

she comes flying from around the corner, all arms and messy hair, and throws herself at you like she’s still ten. you catch her just in time, arms wrapping around her without hesitation. “oh my god,” you breathe, holding her tight. “hi, baby girl.”

“you didn’t tell me you were coming,” she says, muffled into your shoulder.

you smile, hand cradling the back of her head. “wanted to surprise you.”

she pulls back, eyes wide, brimming with something soft and unsaid. “this is the best surprise ever.” then, without missing a beat, “you smell the same.”

“like what?”

“like summer and sleepovers,” she says with a grin, already tugging you toward the couch. “come sit with me before sarah steals you forever.”

you glance back over your shoulder, catching lily’s misty eyes and ward’s small nod. rose touches your arm again, just once.

you feel… overwhelmed. but not in a bad way. you feel wanted.

wheezie tugs you through the crowd, weaving between bodies and laughter and spilled drinks like it’s second nature, like she hasn’t missed a beat since the last time you were here.

she leads you to the far corner of the room—round table, half full, plastic cups and crumpled napkins scattered across it—and your chest tightens a little when you realize where you’re standing.

“the kids’ table,” you say, half laughing as you pull out a chair. “huh. just like the old days.”

wheezie plops down beside you, crossing her arms on the table like she owns it. “yeah,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “except i’m sixteen now and you’re, what, twenty?”

you smirk, leaning back. “twenty and ancient. i know.”

“basically. you have taxes now. and probably back pain.”

“rude,” you say, nudging her knee under the table. “i do stretch, thank you very much.”

she grins, pleased with herself, and you feel it again—that warmth in your chest, that easy comfort that only comes from people who knew you before you knew yourself.

wheezie leans in, voice low but teasing. “so… did you see rafe yet?”

you freeze for a second, heart skipping like it remembers a song it thought it forgot.

you glance over toward the other side of the room. there he is..his eyes locked on you sharp, impossible to look away from.

and just like that, the world tilts, slows down, then stops. everything crashes back all at once, the way you left him behind, the silences that grew between you, the nights you told yourself it was better this way.

you moved on with your life, or at least tried to. but right now, looking into his gaze, it feels like none of that ever mattered.

you swallow hard, cheeks burning, and try to tell yourself it’s just a party. that you’re okay. but your hands won’t stop trembling. can’t stop shaking.

“hellooo,” wheezie says, waving her hand in front of your face. “earth to emotionally spiraling twenty year old.”

you blink, breath catching, tearing your eyes away from him like it actually hurts.

she raises an eyebrow, smirking like she knows exactly what just happened. “i see there’s still tension,” she says, drawing out the word with a little grin. “y’know… you could talk to him. it wouldn’t kill you.”

you laugh under your breath, but there’s no rea joy in it. just ache. “it wouldn’t be fair to him,” you say quietly, fingers tracing the rim of your plastic cup. “after everything, you know...”

wheezie tilts her head. “he might not see it that way.”

“doesn’t matter,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. “i left. i chose to let go. even if part of me never really did.”

she watches you for a second, all of her usual sass gone“you didn’t ruin him, y’know.”

you don’t answer. you just keep staring at your cup, trying not to look back at the boy who’s still staring at you like you never left at all.

wheezie notices before you do. her eyes flicking to someone behind you, mouth twitching like she knows something’s coming. “i’ll give you two a minute,” she says, standing up with a dramatic stretch. “try not to emotionally combust while i’m gone.”

you look up just as she slips away, and there’s lily. soft smile, calm presence, eyes that always saw too much.

“hi, sweetheart,” she says, gently, sliding into the seat next to you like she’s been waiting for the right moment. “you look beautiful.”

“thank you,” you murmur, heart already in your throat. “so do you.”

she pauses, resting her hand lightly on the table between you. “i saw the way you looked at each other.”

you freeze, eyes locked on hers.

“you and rafe,” she says, not unkindly. “i always thought there’d be more.”

you open your mouth, then close it again.

“i’m not saying that to make you uncomfortable,” she adds, gently. “but you loved each other. you did. and maybe you still do, i don’t know. but what i saw just now… it looked like two people who never got their ending.”

you inhale slowly, shoulders tight. “i couldn’t be what he needed,” you say, barely above a whisper.

lily reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from your face like she used to when you were younger, when you still belonged here.

“none of us knew how to be what he needed,” she says softly. “but you came the closest.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands as your fingers twist around the rim of the cup. “we were destroying each other more than we were building something,” you say quietly, voice more steady than you expect. “it felt like love, maybe it was love, but it hurt more than it healed.”

lily’s eyes soften, her hand still resting gently near yours.

“and besides,” you add, forcing a small, breathless laugh, “we were just best friends.”

but the words taste wrong the second they leave your mouth. thin. empty. like a lie you’ve told yourself so many times it stopped sounding like one.

lily doesn’t press. she just looks at you, really looks at you, the way only someone who’s watched everything from the edge of the room can. “i don’t think he ever saw it that way,” she says softly. “and i don’t think you did either.”

you force a laugh, light and sharp, trying to shake the weight off your chest. “well,” you say, leaning back in your chair, “doesn’t matter now, does it?”

your fingers tap against your cup like it’ll distract you, but it doesn’t. not when the words keep pushing up your throat like smoke.

“i mean—” you add, looking away, “isn’t he with that girl from the country club? the brunette.”

lily’s expression doesn’t change, but her voice softens. “sofia?” she says, almost like she’s double checking. “honey, i barely see her. haven’t heard her name in weeks.”

you blink. your heart stumbles. you don’t know why it matters. but it does.

lily watches you for a moment longer, eyes kind, knowing, too full of things she doesn’t say out loud. and you sit there, suddenly aware of the way rafe hasn’t stopped watching you from across the room.

lily sighs, eyes drifting for a moment, like she’s seeing a different version of the past one that still aches, one she never fully let go of. “y’know,” she says quietly, “before the divorce with ward… before rose… hell, even before rafe—”

you look up at her, brows slightly raised.

“ward and i were just best friends too,” she says, lips tugging into something that’s not quite a smile. “we swore that’s all it was. and maybe it was, at first. until it wasn’t.”

she shifts in her seat, gaze heavy but gentle. “we fucked it when rose came into the picture. we let pride and fear speak louder than anything else. but maybe—” she pauses, eyes meeting yours—“maybe we could’ve saved it if we weren’t just as stubborn as you and rafe are right now.”

your breath catches, throat tight.

“maybe then,” she adds, voice quieter now, “rafe wouldn’t have a stepmom and a mother he barely sees. maybe he’d have a home that still felt like one.”

and when you glance over your shoulder again, rafe’s still watching you. like he never stopped. like he never will.

your voice drops to a hush, almost like you’re not sure you’re allowed to say it “i always felt bad about that, lily…”

she looks at you, waiting. you glance down at your hands, thumbs twisting in your lap “ward cheating with rose, i mean.”

the words sit heavy between you, truth laced in guilt, the kind that never really went away. “i was there all the time back then. i saw it. not them, but… the shift. i knew something was wrong and i never said anything. i didn’t know how.”

lily’s eyes soften, a sad sort of knowing behind them. “you were just a kid,” she says gently. “that wasn’t your burden to carry.”

you nod, but it doesn’t lift the weight.

“still,” you murmur, “i always felt like i should’ve done something. like maybe it wouldn’t have happened. or at least not the way it did.”

lily’s quiet for a moment, then reaches over, her hand covering yours. “ward made his choices. so did rose. and so did i.” she squeezes gently. “you were never the one to blame.”

lily watches you for a moment, eyes lingering, voice dipping just low enough that no one else could hear “but,” she says softly, “you are the one to blame ten years from now… if you’re still thinking about rafe.”

your breath stills.

“if you’re lying awake at night wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just said something. if you’d stayed. if you’d let yourself love him the way you wanted to—if you keep living your life pretending you don’t.”

you look at her, throat tightening, chest aching in that place only he ever touched.

“he’s a lot,” she whispers, almost smiling. “but so were you. and somehow… you made each other lighter.”

you don’t say anything. because what could you possibly say to that?

she gives your hand one last squeeze before standing, brushing invisible lint from her dress, eyes soft.

“think about it,” she says, turning toward the crowd. “before ten years turns into forever.”

and then she’s gone, leaving you in a chair, heart loud, hands shaking. your mind starts spiraling before you even stand.

this is sarah’s birthday. her eighteenth. you came here for her. not for him. not to have your heart dragged out and picked apart in front of chandeliers and champagne flutes.

not to remember every kiss that almost happened. not to relive every night you cried on his chest or the mornings he made you laugh like the world hadn’t already broken you in half.

you didn’t come here to see the boy who ruined you. you didn’t come to apologize—especially not for something that wasn’t even your fault.

you had to leave. you had to survive. you couldn’t keep loving someone who only bled on you. who said he didn’t need saving, but still reached for you every time he drowned.

you remind yourself…he wasn’t ready. you weren’t enough. he let you go. but still… he’s here now.

you get up too fast, heart pounding too loud, body moving just to move. just to get away from thoughts that are swallowing you whole. your phone’s in your hand before you even realize it, thumb scrolling aimlessly, anything to distract yourself, to pretend none of this is unraveling inside your chest.

you’re walking toward the drink table, eyes glued to your screen, heat rising in your cheeks, teeth digging into your lip and then

crash.

your body collides into something—someone—and your glass tips forward, half your drink sloshing down the front of a button down shirt.

“shit,” you gasp, stumbling back a step, eyes wide.

and then you look up. and it’s him. of course it’s rafe. and the whole world stops like it knows.

just like it did the first time you heard him laugh. just like it did the night he held you in the back of his truck, whispered that he needed you more than anything he’d ever had.

he blinks at you, his expression unreadable, lips parted, chest rising and falling slow like he’s afraid to speak—afraid you’ll disappear if he does.

your breath catches in your throat. the music fades into a hum, something that sounds like a frank ocean song bleeding through the speakers. low and tragic, all velvet and yearning.

you look at the mess on his shirt, dark liquid soaking through linen, and then up at his face again.

he’s older now. more tired in the eyes. more beautiful in a way that hurts.

your voice comes out soft, like a ghost of you “i’m… i didn’t see you.”

“i know,” he says, and god..his voice. raspy, familiar, a knife made of silk.

you stare at each other, frozen, and for a second it feels like all those nights come rushing back. your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, his quiet promises in the dark. your heart is screaming. your body aches to run.

but neither of you move. and maybe that’s what love is. standing in a room full of people, pretending you didn’t already lose each other but still loving each other so much you just can’t go.

he leans in, just barely, like it hurts to get too close. like your gravity is still the same and he’s trying not to fall again. his breath grazes your cheek when he speaks, low and wrecked. “you always look at me like that.”

you freeze. like what? like you loved him too long? like you still do?

but your voice doesn’t work fast enough. instead, your eyes flick down to the mess on his shirt, the wet fabric clinging to his chest, and you fumble for an escape, something to fill the silence, something safe. “i—i will, i…” you stammer, blinking quick. “i’m gonna get some napkins. for your shirt. i didn’t mean to—”

but his hand wraps gently around your wrist. not tight. not possessive. just enough to stop you. just enough to say don’t go.

his fingers are warm. too familiar. your skin still knows him “don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks on it. “just… don’t.”

your heart caves a little, something fragile cracking behind your ribs, and suddenly all you can hear is the song playing in the background.

something slow, aching, like it was written for the two of you before you even met.

his eyes are glassy now. you think if he blinked, the whole party might flood. “stay,” he whispers. like he’s saying it for the first time. like he’s saying it for every time you didn’t.

he holds your wrist a little tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he lets go. his voice drops lower, heavier with a weight you didn’t expect “i have your diary, you know. had it since you left.”

your breath hitches, heart suddenly exposed bare like a wound you thought was healed.

you look away first, swallowing thickly. “i know,” you whisper, voice trembling like a secret. “never had the guts to ask for it back.”

he lets out a slow, humorless laugh, like something cracked inside him and never really glued back together. “it was under my pillow. the side of the bed that used to be yours.”

the words hit you harder than any punch. the bed. the room. the space you once filled, now just a ghost. you swallow again, eyes heavy, voice barely steady. “why did you keep it?”

he looks at you then something raw and vulnerable shining behind his guarded stare. “because,” he says, voice breaking like a fragile thing, “it was the only way i could keep you close.”

you pull your wrist gently free, blinking hard to steady yourself“you can throw it away, you know. it’s nothing important to me.”

his eyes don’t flicker, don’t waver. instead, he steps closer, voice low but certain. “it’s important to me.” there’s a weight behind the words that presses into your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. “you should’ve known that”

you blink up at him, voice barely a whisper“did you… read it?”

he swallows hard, eyes flickering away for just a second before meeting yours again,“yeah… i—i did.”

you laugh then, breathless, shaking your head like it’s the funniest, most heartbreaking thing you’ve heard all night. “you did, huh?”

his smile is small, almost sad, “yeah.”

you set your drink down on the table, voice soft but firm, “you should clean that shirt, yknow?”

he nods, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “yeah, you’re right.”

before you can say anything else, he takes your hand—warm, steady—and leads you through the crowd, “we need to talk anyway.”

upstairs, away from the noise, just the two of you. finally talking, finally alone.

taglist part 2

tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesteddy @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @rafescloudie @babygoddam @meetmeintheemeraldpool @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @addyleigh

your stomach drops.you don’t fix your hair. don’t fix your shirt. don’t fix anything.

you just lock the register, grab your keys, and go.

the sun’s barely down. heat rising off the pavement. and there he is—propped against his truck like he didn’t just eat you out behind a cash register.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t say a word.

just watches you cross the lot like he’s been starving for years and you’re the only thing left to taste.

you stop in front of him. heart hammering.

he jerks his chin. “get in the back.”

you climb into the bed of the truck, hands shaking, thighs already slick again. you hear the cab door slam, and then he’s climbing in after you—kicking the tailgate shut behind him like he’s sealing a crime scene.

you don’t even get a chance to speak.

he grabs you. kisses you like he’s drowning in it, like he’ll die if you pull away.

“this what you want?” he pants, already pulling your shorts down. “you want your best friend to fuck you in a truck behind your mom’s shop?”

you nod, dizzy. “yes.”

“nah, baby.” he grabs your face, makes you look at him. “not your best friend anymore.”

your breath catches.

“say it.”

you blink. “you’re not my best friend.”

his eyes flash. “what am i?”

you hesitate. “you’re…”

he grinds his hips into yours, cock pressing hard and hot between your legs.

“you’re mine,” you gasp.

he groans—like that broke something in him.

“fuckin’ finally.”

then he’s slamming into you. no teasing. no hesitation. just skin against skin, bodies colliding, years of tension snapping all at once.

you cry out.

“shh,” he growls in your ear. “fuckin’ take it. you wanted this, remember?”

you dig your nails into his shoulders. his rhythm is brutal, fucking into you like he’s making a point. like he’s carving it into your skin.

“you’re tight as fuck,” he grits. “so fuckin’ wet. you missed this, huh? missed what it’s like to feel.”

you nod, wild, desperate. “rafe—fuck—please—”

he flips you. presses your chest to the truck bed, takes you from behind.

“you thought we were gonna stay friends?” he pants, pounding into you. “after the way you came on my tongue?”

you scream. he slaps your ass. once, twice.

“quiet.”

you’re trembling.

“i’ll never be your friend again,” he says, voice dark and raw and ruined. “not after this. not after you let me inside you like this.”

your thighs shake. your body clenches.

“you’re close?” he taunts. “gonna come for me, baby?”

you sob. “yes—yes—rafe—”

“you come on my cock and it’s done,” he growls. “you’re mine. no more flirty bullshit. no more pretendin’.”

your body breaks.

you clamp down around him, shaking, crying, moaning his name so loud it echoes off the empty buildings.

he groans—loud and ragged—then stills.

you feel him twitch inside you.

then he pulls out—slow, deliberate—and flips you again so you’re on your back, dazed and wrecked.

he leans in, presses a kiss to your jaw.

“not your best friend,” he whispers again.

his fingers slip between your legs. “but i’ll ruin you better than he ever could.”

your thighs are still trembling. your lips are kiss-swollen. your whole body feels like it’s buzzing, overstimulated and barely holding on.

and he’s still hard.

you blink up at him from the truck bed, sprawled out beneath the stars and the echo of your moans. your shirt’s off now. your panties are somewhere in the cab. you’re fucked-out and floating. but he’s not done.

he grabs your waist.“ride me.”

your breath hitches. “rafe—”

“get on top,” he says, jaw tight. “wanna watch your face when i fill you up.”

you whimper.

he lies back, hands behind his head like he’s daring you to take control. cock flushed and thick between his thighs, already leaking for you.

“don’t get shy now,” he murmurs. “you already screamed my name with your mom’s store sign flipped to closed.”

you crawl over him, thighs straddling his hips, palms flat against his chest.

“fuck,” he groans, looking up at you like you’re made of gold. “look at you.”

you sink down. his mouth drops open.

“jesus christ,” he grits. “you were made for me.”

you can’t speak. can barely breathe.

he fills you so deep it’s dizzying. so hot you feel it in your throat. and when you start to move—slow, sinful rolls of your hips—he loses it.

“yeah, baby, just like that,” he pants. “take what you need. use me.”

you do. you fuck him like you own him.

like you’ve been aching for this since the first time you hugged too long. the first time he said your name with something filthy underneath it. the first time he walked in the shop with hungry eyes and a lazy grin and you felt it between your legs.

your rhythm builds—grinding down, his hands guiding your hips, pulling you closer.

“you feel that?” he growls. “that stretch? that pressure? that’s me, baby.”

you cry out.

he grips your throat—gently, just enough to make you look at him. “you know what this means?”

you blink. “what?”

“means no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

you tighten around him.

“means i’m the only one who knows what your pussy feels like from the inside.”

you moan, loud and needy.

his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you down. “means this little cunt’s mine now.”

you’re unraveling. his voice, his hands, the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted and he’s about to ruin you with it.

and then he says it “ride me ‘til i come in you, baby.”

you gasp.

“i want it all the way in,” he groans. “want you so fuckin’ full you leak down your legs.”

you clamp down around him, tight, hot, dripping. your hands fist in his hair. your whole body shudders.

“gonna come for me?” he growls. “gonna come with me buried inside you, stretchin’ you open, fillin’ you up so deep it sticks?”

you nod. frantic. trembling.

“do it.”

you come—loud, wet, shaking apart with him still pulsing inside you. you collapse onto his chest, crying out his name again and again and again.

and when he finally comes—deep, messy, groaning your name like a prayer—he holds you there. doesn’t let you move.

“stay right there,” he whispers. “wanna keep it inside you a little longer.”

your lips brush his throat. “rafe…”

his arms lock around you.”you’re mine now.”

bsf!rafe taglist masterlist

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @k4yr14 @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @sc05 @purplerose291 @t0x1cfaerie @deeninadream @rafescloudie @meetmeintheemeraldpool @sydneysslove @babygoddam @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @qversazex @alphabetically-deranged