#exbf!rafe

exboyfriend!rafe who smirks to himself every single time you delete his comments and still does it again on the next post like it’s a game between you, because you didn’t block him or ignore it, and that’s enough for him

exboyfriend!rafe who texts you at 3 in the morning like clockwork rafe: you up? and he already knows you are, knows you’ll stare at it for a minute before answering anyway, because no matter how hard you try to ignore him, you don’t. not really anyway.

exboyfriend!rafe who smirks at his phone when you finally text back, like ‘there’s my girl’.

exboyfriend!rafe who pulls you right back into him so easily it’s almost embarrassing. one little conversation, one look, one “come here” or “i miss you” and suddenly you’re right back where you said you’d never be again, like you never left in the first place .

exboyfriend!rafe who gets under your skin like no one else. he knows exactly what to say, what buttons to push, how to make you fold. but if you look at him and say “leave,” he'll hesitate for half a second, then actually listen

exboyfriend!rafe who you did break up with for a reason, all the fighting, his constant jealousy, or the way he never knew when to stop, but honestly none of that really made you stop wanting him. you just kept listening to outside noise.

exboyfriend!rafe who is completely, unhealthily infatuated with you, like you’re not something he can lose, you’re something he just doesn’t let go of, just something temporarily out of reach.

exboyfriend!rafe who shows up uninvited sometimes, leaning against his car like it’s nothing, eyes scanning until they land on you, “get in." like you didn’t spend weeks trying to stay away from him, and he doesn’t even question it when you hesitate, just tilts his head slightly, knowing look on his face, “you’re still thinkin’ about it, aren’t you?” 

exboyfriend!rafe who hears from your friends that they’re telling you to stay away from him, and just laughs under his breath, “yeah? how’s that workin’ for them so far?”

exboyfriend!rafe who knows you’re tired of the cycle, and sees it in the way you hesitate more, or how you pull away faster. but instead of letting you go, he just pulls you in harder.

exboyfriend!rafe who will never admit it out loud, but the idea of you being truly done with him? that’s the only thing that actually scares him, because he knows he’s the worst thing for you, the one person you know you should stay away from, but can't possibly fathom not having you anymore.

exboyfriend!rafe who knows exactly what he’s doing, and knows you’re not strong enough to stop it either.

exboyfriend!rafe who watches your stories like it’s his job, every single one, immediately, even when you post something random just to see if he will, but he always does. and he’ll reply to them sometimes too, “that for me?” like you didn’t post it for everyone, like it’s still just between you and him

exboyfriend!rafe who gets under your skin on purpose, saying just enough to irritate you, to pull a reaction out of you, because he’d rather you be mad at him than ignore him completely, and every time you do, it feeds that obsession even more

exboyfriend!rafe who notices when you try to move on for real. the way you stop answering, or showing up, and that’s when he gets the worst, the most persistent, like he refuses to be replaced, like it personally offends him like the idea of you with someone else doesn’t even register as real

exboyfriend!rafe who always stands a little too close when he’s near you, always finding a way to touch you, even if it’s small, your wrist, your hand, the small of your back, like he’s reminding both of you that he still can, like distance isn’t something he respects when it comes to you

exboyfriend!rafe who lowers his voice when he talks to you in public, like it’s instinct, like whatever this is should still feel private

exboyfriend!rafe who doesn’t verbally beg for you back, he’s too proud for that, but everything else he does says the opposite

exboyfriend!rafe who softens for a split second sometimes, when it’s just you and him, like the version of him you fell for is still there, and that’s what makes it harder to leave

exboyfriend!rafe who still knows your body like muscle memory, like nothing’s changed, like he never had to relearn a single thing about you. 

exboyfriend!rafe who gets a little rougher than he should sometimes, not in a careless way, but in that pent up, frustrated way, like all the tension between you has nowhere else to go

exboyfriend!rafe who always pauses for half a second, checking your reaction, always making sure you’re enjoying it just as much as he always is. 

exboyfriend!rafe who still gets that same look when you touch him first, slight surprise, then that slow smirk, like he knew you’d fold eventually

exboyfriend!rafe who always lingers after he fucks you senselessly, longer than he should, like neither of you want to acknowledge what just happened

exboyfriend!rafe who can't help but moan your name, whispering sweet nothings in your ear that make you not want to ever pull away, "you'll always be fucking mine" "no one will ever make you feel as good as i do" and the worst part is, you know he's right.

exboyfriend!rafe who doesn’t rush it anymore, he takes his time, slowly teasing you, feeling your entire body, kissing every sweet spot on your neck and thighs, like he’s savoring it more because he doesn’t technically have you anymore

exboyfriend!rafe who hates that you have that kind of control over him, but at the same time? it’s exactly why he’s so hooked on you

exboyfriend!rafe who melts the second you give him even a little bit of attention, like all that attitude, all that control just, drops when it comes to you

exboyfriend!rafe who would burn everything down for you, but still waits on your word before he does anything

exboyfriend!rafe who acts like he owns you in private, with that usual cocky tone, but the second you pull back or say his name a certain way? yeah, he’s the one adjusting, not you

exboyfriend!rafe who knows you better than anyone, your moods, your limits, your tells, and uses it to his advantage, but also lets you use it against him just as easily

exboyfriend!rafe who is completely, undeniably obsessed with you, but still looks at you like you’re the one holding all the power anyway.

his breathing was uneven, like he was fighting back sobs. you squeezed your eyes shut. you remembered how it felt, standing there at that party, your chest splitting as you watched him touch her the way he used to touch you.

“i keep trying to fill the hole you left. pills, booze, girls, fights—none of it works. it never works. because it’s not you. it’s never you. and i swear to god, you’re the only one who makes me feel like i’m not insane. like i’m not just my father’s fucked-up, broken son. with you, i felt… human. like maybe i was worth something. do you get that? you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.”

your throat closed. tears spilling down your cheeks. he was saying all the things you once begged him to say when you were still there, still fighting for him. and now it was too late.

“i know i ruined it. i know i broke you. i know i’ve been a coward from the start. but i can’t fucking breathe without you. i can’t sleep, i can’t eat, i can’t think. i walk into a room and i’m looking for you. i close my eyes and it’s you i see. i’m haunted by you, y/n. and maybe that’s what i deserve. maybe that’s my punishment for throwing away the only good thing i ever had. but i’m begging you, even if you never take me back—please don’t forget me. please don’t erase me from your life like i don’t exist. i couldn’t take it.”

a pause, then a sound so raw it broke you. he choked on a desperate sob. you bit your lip so hard it almost bled. part of you wanted to hate him for this. and part of you wanted to reach through the phone and just have him with you again.

“i love you. i love you in a way that ruins me. in a way that’s killing me right now. and i’ll never stop. i don’t care if you hate me, i don’t care if you never say it back again—i’ll never stop loving you. you’re it for me, y/n. you’ve always been it.”

the voicemail ended in silence. but his words hung in the air, pressing against your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. you sat there in the dark, your phone clutched tight, tears slipping down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

you hated him. you loved him. you couldn’t stop hurting. and yet, god help you, you wanted him. your thumb hovered over his name in your call log. you told yourself not to do it, that it would only hurt more. but you pressed it anyway.

the line rang once. and then his voice came through, rough and broken, like he hadn’t slept in days. “…y/n?”

The gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled up to Rafe's house. Even now, after everything, the sight of the place twisted your stomach. Too many memories; laughter on the back patio, his arm heavy across your shoulders at night, whispered promises he’d never keep.

You weren’t here for nostalgia. You were here for your things. The front door was already open when you walked up, and there he was, leaning against the frame like he’d been waiting. Rafe looked the same as always, white tee stretched across his chest, jaw tight, eyes sharp and unreadable. “You could’ve called,” he said flatly.

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him into the house. “I don’t need to call to pick up my stuff.”

His laugh was humorless. “Guess not. Thought you were done with this place, though. Done with me.”

Your chest tightened, but you ignored it, heading straight for the stairs. “I am.”

Rafe followed you, of course. He never knew when to back off. “Sure doesn’t look like it. You’re back here, aren’t you?”

You whirled around on the landing, glaring at him. “Don’t start. I just want my things, Rafe. That’s it.”

“Right.” His lips twisted into a smirk, but his eyes were anything but amused. “Just your things. That’s all it ever was with you, huh? Take what you want, then leave.”

The words cut deeper than you wanted them to. Your voice cracked, sharper now. “That’s rich, coming from you. You pushed me away every chance you got, and now you want to act like I’m the one who ruined it?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. For a long moment, the two of you just stared, the air buzzing with all the words you’d never said, all the ones you were too afraid to. And then, like always, the tension snapped. Rafe closed the space between you, his hand gripping the railing. “You think I don’t want you?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think I ever stopped?”

Your chest heaved, anger and something darker twisting in your gut. “Don’t-” But then his mouth was on yours. Rough, desperate, the kind of kiss that felt like a fight in itself. You shoved at his chest, nails dragging across his shirt, but he only pressed harder, the railing digging into your back.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered against his lips.

“Yeah?” His breath was hot against your mouth. “Then why do you sound like you’re begging me to touch you?”

The worst part was that he was right. The ache between your thighs betrayed you, the way your body leaned into his despite everything. It was messy and wrong, but you couldn’t stop. Not when his hands were already on your hips, dragging you flush against him like he’d never let you go again.

You should’ve walked away. But instead, you kissed him back, teeth clashing, both of you taking out every leftover piece of hurt and anger on each other. Hate and want blurred together until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he growled, spinning you around and shoving you against the wall, your palms bracing against the cool surface.

His hands were everywhere, tugging your pants down, leaving you bare and exposed. You heard the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then he was behind you, his breath ragged.

“You don’t get to walk away and act like I’m nothing,” he said, voice thick with anger and lust, his fingers digging into your hips. “You’re mine, whether you admit it or not.” He didn’t wait for a response, thrusting into you hard, filling you in one brutal stroke. You cried out, the stretch intense, a mix of pain and pleasure that made your head spin.

“Rafe!” you gasped, hands flat against the wall as he set a punishing pace, each thrust slamming you forward, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the empty hallway. It was raw, angry, every movement fueled by the resentment and want you’d both buried for too long.

“Say you hate me again,” he snarled, one hand sliding up to grip your throat, not choking but holding you there, keeping you pinned. “Go on.”

“I hate you,” you spat, but it came out as a moan, your body betraying you as you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. He laughed, dark and bitter, his grip tightening as he fucked you harder, deeper, like he was trying to carve himself into you.

“Liar,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, his other hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit, fast and relentless. “You fucking love this. Love me.” The pleasure was overwhelming, building too fast, your body trembling as the anger melted into something hotter, more desperate.

You came with a broken cry, your walls clenching around him, your body shaking as he kept going, not slowing for a second. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic, his fingers bruising your hips. He followed right after, spilling inside you with a low, guttural sound, his body pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat against your back.

For a moment, neither of you moved, panting, the weight of what just happened settling in. He pulled out slowly, turning you to face him. His eyes were still sharp, but there was something softer there now, something raw.

“Still hate me?” he asked, voice low, almost daring you to lie again.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your body still buzzing. “Yeah,” you said, but the word lacked venom, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

you stood there for another minute, heart still thundering, until the silence of the house pressed too heavy against your chest. marcus was asleep in the other room. marcus, your actual boyfriend. marcus, who was stable, sweet, safe. marcus, who wasn’t a hurricane in a human body, who didn’t tear through every piece of you and call it love.

marcus, who’d never call you at 2 a.m. begging for “one last time”

you slipped your phone onto the counter, pressed the heel of your hand against your forehead, and muttered to yourself “god, you’re such a dumb bitch”

because of course it wouldn’t be the last time. who the hell were you trying to kid? him? yourself? me???

when you finally padded back to the bedroom, the sheets were still warm, his breathing even. he shifted as you slid under the covers, half asleep, pressing closer without opening his eyes

“where’d you go?” his voice was heavy with sleep, slow and muffled against your shoulder

“kitchen,” you whispered, “i was hot. needed some water.”

not the truth. not even close. not that you’d been standing in the kitchen with your heart in your throat, whispering to your ex like you weren’t already in someone else’s house. not that you were planning to see him behind marcus’ back. definitelyyyy not that.

marcus hummed, satisfied with the answer, nuzzling into you before drifting back into deeper sleep.

you stared at the ceiling, wide awake, your chest aching with the weight of the lie.

closure. you repeated the word like a prayer, like a shield. closure was clean. closure was practical. closure was what people did when they were ready to move on.

but then the echo of his voice played in your head—raw, drunk, desperate ‘there’s no such thing as one last time with you’

and fuck, maybe he was right. maybe there wasn’t. maybe you were already lying to yourself worse than you’d lied to marcus.

still, you curled into your boyfriend’s chest, let him wrap an arm around you, let yourself pretend—for just a second—that you could keep both truths separate. that morning would come and you’d still be able to walk into the kitchen like nothing happened, like you hadn’t promised your ex one last night.

your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry. you just let yourself lie there, tense and tired, whispering to your own brain ‘damn, you’re really a dumb bitch for believing it’s the last time’

maybe you’re just too young to keep good love from going wrong. that’s one way to spin it. the gentlest version of the truth.

like it’s not really your fault, like maybe it’s just an age thing, an experience thing. maybe you’re still learning how to not trip over your own heart.

or maybe you’re just too young to not make these mistakes. that’s what people do, right? they mess up, they rebound, they circle back to things they swore they’d never touch again. like pills. like rafe.

you broke up, you got with someone else, you answered a call you shouldn’t have, and now you’re planning to meet your ex again. sounds like a bad song, or maybe a good one, depending on who’s singing.

and the ex? the one you’re sneaking out for? yeah, we can agree by now—he’s your weakness. no use pretending otherwise. he always has been. the boy who looks at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever believe in, the boy who breaks you in half and then begs you to hold him together. your own personal poison.

and you? you’re the idiot who keeps drinking.

you know better. god, you know better. you’ve got marcus—good on paper marcus—who smiles at you, who kisses you without leaving bruises after, who doesn’t set your whole body on fire just by breathing near you. and yet here you are, lying in his bed, already plotting how you’ll sneak out of it.

damn. you really are fucking bitch for believing it’s the last time.

but maybe that’s part of being this age, too, thinking you can still get away with it. thinking you can thread the needle between the right thing and the thing you want, like consequences won’t come for you eventually

so you let yourself keep believing in the idea of closure, the fairy tale version where one more night with rafe will cure you of him. like he’s a fever you can sweat out if you just suffer through it long enough.

and even as you think it a voice inside you laughs. because you know damn well there’s no such thing as one last time with rafe cameron.

but hey. you’ll find that out soon enough.

and oh, rafe—let’s not forget about the other dumb bitch in this story.

because while you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, guilty and restless beside a boy who loves you in all the right, reasonable ways…rafe cameron is on the other side of town, drunk and euphoric, glowing like a man who just won the lottery.

pathetic, right?

he’s pathetic for you. and it’s not a crush, not a passing thing, not even lust (though there’s plenty of that, always). it’s love. ugly, rabid, bottomless love. the kind of love that chews holes through the walls of his chest, the kind that claws at his ribs like it wants out.

it’s the kind of love that should be holy, but in his hands, it rots.

rafe cameron loves you like a sickness. like a fever he doesn’t want cured. he loves you in metaphors he’ll never say out loud because they scare even him. you’re not his sunshine—you’re the cigarette he lights when drunk, knowing it’ll kill him but craving the drag anyway.

you’re not his safe harbor—you’re the storm he sails into on purpose, daring the waves to split him in half.

and he is so, so, soo fucking gone for you.

he’s lying there now, staring at the ceiling of a stranger’s living room, the bass from the club still buzzing faint in his skull, but all he can think about is you. your voice when you whispered ‘one last time’ the way you cracked, just slightly, even as you tried to resist him.

that sound has already ruined him. it’s branded into his head, louder than the music, sharper than the alcohol. he could live off that sound alone, starve himself of food and water and still survive on the echo of your voice.

pathetic. absolutely pathetic.

but here’s the thing: rafe cameron doesn’t love like other people. he doesn’t know moderation. his heart doesn’t beat at a normal rhythm, it slams, it riots, it riots for you.

when he loves, it’s possession. it’s obsession. it’s hunger. it’s not holding hands and lazy sunday mornings—it’s teeth at your throat, it’s mine mine mine, it’s every cell in his body revolting against the idea of you belonging to anyone else.

and he does love you. he loves you so much it makes him sick, makes him mean, makes him cruel in ways he doesn’t even recognize until it’s too late

you’re his cocaine. not in the lazy cliche way, but in the exact, ugly, accurate sense: you make him high, you make him reckless, you ruin his life in ways he’ll happily let you. and like coke, once he had a taste, he could never get enough.

his chest still carries the memory of you—like your fingerprints are pressed into his sternum, like his bones remember your touch. he could pick your laugh out of a crowd of thousands, could map the exact sound of your sigh against the back of his neck, could draw your face in the dark with his eyes shut.

that’s how bad it is. that’s how far gone he is.

and god, he knows it’s pathetic. he knows he looks like a fool, begging into the phone, promising closure when he has no intention of ever letting you go. but knowing doesn’t stop him.

rafe cameron has never been able to stop himself where you’re concerned.

he’d bleed himself dry for you. he’d break every bone in his own body if it meant keeping you close for five more minutes.

because to him, you’re not just a girl he loved once. you’re not just an ex. you’re it. the whole thing. the beginning, the middle, the end.

rafe cameron is twenty something years old, and in his mind, his life already started and ended with you.

and so he glows tonight, pathetic and euphoric, because he gets to see you again. one more time. alone.

and maybe he knows, deep down, that there’s no such thing as “one last time” but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care how much it hurts him, doesn’t care how much it hurts you

because when rafe cameron loves, he doesn’t let go. ever.

when rafe woke up the next morning, his first thought was you. his second thought was you. his third, fourth, fifth—still you. it was you you you you. always you.

the sunlight that cut through the blinds didn’t matter, the pounding hangover in his skull didn’t matter, the fact that he’d passed out on some stranger’s couch with his shoes still on didn’t matter. none of it touched him. because you had said yes. you had said one last time.

and that was enough to make his chest feel like it was splitting open.

the sad thing; the really tragic, pathetic, laughable thing, is that rafe never actually left. you broke up, you left him, you moved on, but he’s still there.

still at the restaurant. still sitting at the table for two, waiting like an idiot with his drink going flat, swearing you’d walk back in any second.

months have gone by. other people came and went. but rafe? rafe never stood up. never paid the bill. never walked out the door.

he’s still there, heart clutched in both hands like a reservation slip, convinced that if he just waits long enough, you’ll come back.

and last night, when you whispered one last time, it felt like you finally cracked the door open again. like the waiter came by, pulled out the other chair, and set it back down across from him.

today. today is the day.

he keeps repeating it in his head as he drags himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. today is the day. the day he either breaks completely or stitches himself back together. the day he either loses you forever or proves to himself—proves to you—that what you had wasn’t just something you toss away

it’s pathetic, how much hope he’s choking on. he knows that. he can feel it in his chest, too big, too sharp. it hurts, but he clings to it anyway.

he stumbles into the bathroom, splashes water on his face. in the cracked mirror, he barely recognizes himself. eyes bloodshot, jaw shadowed.. but beneath all that—the wreckage—he sees the gleam. that same fever bright look that only comes when he’s high off something he shouldn’t be.

except this time, it’s not coke. not whiskey. not pills. it’s you.

you’re the line on the table. you’re the shot in his veins. you’re the one thing that makes him feel alive when everything else has gone flat and gray.

and god, it terrifies him.

because if today is the day—if today is really the last time—then what happens after? what happens if you look at him and it doesn’t undo you the way it undoes him? what happens if you say goodbye and mean it this time”

the thought makes him sick. makes him grip the edge of the sink until his knuckles blanch

rafe cameron does not know how to live without you. he’s tried. he’s failed.

so he shoves the thought away, drowns it before it can spread. convinces himself instead that today won’t be an ending. no—today is the beginning again. today you’ll see him, you’ll remember, you’ll feel the same pull that drags him under every time.

because you always did. and he’s betting everything that you still do

he moves through the motions like a ghost. home, coffee, a shower, the slow crawl of hours until it’s time. but no matter what he does, your name is a drumbeat in his head. your face, your laugh, your voice from last night—it’s all there, louder than anything else.

you, you, you.

today is the day. and whether it breaks him or makes him whole again, he’ll take it. he’ll take anything, as long as it means one more glimpse of you.

you’re home now. you left marcus this morning with guilt pressed sharp against your ribcage, carrying your heart in your hands. your stomach’s been dropped since the second you closed his front door behind you, because—well…

if i’m being completely honest, if i strip down all your excuses and your careful little lies, here’s the truth: you’re meeting the love of your life again today.

alone. just you two. always you two.

and isn’t that the scariest part? not that you said yes, not that you’re lying to marcus, not even that you’re sneaking around with the boy who ruined you—no, the scariest part is that deep down, you know exactly what rafe is.

what he’s always been. he’s the gravity under your feet. the storm under your skin. he’s the one who can make you feel everything all at once—love, rage, hunger, devastation—until you’re dizzy and gasping

so you sit in your bedroom now, staring at your reflection in the mirror, and all you can think is: “what if i fall too much today? what if i slip back into the freefall and there’s no pulling myself out?”

you remember last night, his voice dripping through the receiver like poison and honey at the same time. you remember the way he begged, the way he turned jealous and then soft and sorry, like he couldn’t hold himself together in one shape for more than a few seconds

you know what drunk rafe sounds like. you know what drunk rafe promises. so the doubt worms in too, twisting cruel in your chest: what if he didn’t mean it? what if he wakes up sober and shrugs it off, chalks it up to another night he doesn’t want to remember?

what if you’re the only one still caught in this endless orbit, waiting like a fool for a boy who’s already let go”

your hands are shaking. you press them against your knees, try to still them. but your whole body feels unsteady, restless, like it knows you’re walking into fire.

maybe you’re just too young, you think. too young not to make these mistakes—the breaking up, the getting with someone else, the circling back to your ex like a moth to a flame.

and rafe—god. rafe has always been your flame.

marcus is good. he’s everything you told yourself you wanted after the wreckage of rafe. and yet here you are, lying to him before the morning’s even over. telling him you’re running errands, when really you’re waiting, sick with nerves, to see the boy who ruined you and still owns you

your mind runs circles around itself, pulling memories up like they’re proof. rafe laughing with his head tilted back, rafe’s hands framing your jaw like he’s holding the world, rafe whispering things he was too proud to say in daylight. rafe looking at you like you were the first and last thing that ever mattered.

you remember the fights too, the slammed doors, the words that cut so deep you bled for weeks after. but the thing about scars is that they fade, even when they shouldn’t.

and all you can feel right now is the echo of his touch, the burn of his eyes, the way your name sounds in his mouth.

you lie back on your bed and stare at the ceiling. your heart won’t slow down. you’re scared. you’re so fucking scared.

scared you’ll see him and fall right back into his arms. scared you’ll see him and realize he’s moved on and you’re the only one still tethered to the past. scared of the power he still holds, scared of the way he unravels you without even trying.

but beneath all of it—beneath the fear and the guilt and the doubt—is the truth you don’t want to name: you want to see him. god help you, you want it.

and isn’t that pathetic? isn’t that exactly why you’re a dumb bitch in this story, too?

because no matter how much you say you love marcus, no matter how hard you try to move forward, it’s still rafe’s voice that shreds you open. it’s still rafe’s shadow that follows you into every room. it’s still rafe you think of when you’re lying awake at night, even now.

especially now.

you squeeze your eyes shut. take a breath. tell yourself it’s closure. it has to be. just one last time, just to put it to rest.

and maybe you almost believe it. but deep down, in that corner of your heart that never learned how to lie, you know better.

you know it’s never just closure with rafe cameron. it’s never just one last time. it’s always you two. always has been. always will be.

and when your phone rings, when you flip it over on your bed and see the notification glowing against the screen.

rafe: i’m at the door.

your heart drops so hard it feels like it smashes against the floorboards.

for a moment, you swear it stops beating altogether.

you just sit there, staring at the words, hands going clammy, throat dry. your breath shallow and uneven like you’ve just run a mile when you haven’t even stood up yet.

he’s here.

not a maybe, not a promise for later, not some thing floating in the future. no. he’s here. now. right outside.

the whole morning you’ve been telling yourself you have time. time to fix your face, fix your excuses, fix the way your insides won’t stop twisting themselves into knots. time to rehearse what you’ll say when you see him. time to prepare yourself, fortify yourself, convince yourself you’ll be fine.

but no. rafe doesn’t give you that luxury. he never did.

he’s at your door, and suddenly it’s not some plan anymore—it’s real.

you can’t stop the thoughts from pouring in all at once, flooding you.

what if he’s only here because he’s still drunk? what if he doesn’t mean any of the things he said? what if he came just to prove to himself that you still want him and then leaves you hollow again?

what if you open the door and your whole chest caves in the second you look at him?

your legs feel like lead when you stand. your phone is a weight in your hand, screen still burning his words into your palm. you can see yourself reflected in the black glass for a second and you look—terrified.

that’s what makes you laugh under your breath, this shaky, broken sound. terrified of him, terrified of yourself, terrified of how badly you still want him after everything

you take one step toward the door, then stop. your stomach flips. your skin prickles hot. it feels like walking toward the edge of a cliff, and part of you is screaming to turn around, go back, lock yourself in your room, text him ‘don’t do this’

but another part—the part that always wins where rafe is concerned—pulls you forward anyway.

because if you’re being honest, this is what you’ve been waiting for since the second you picked up his call last night

on the other side of that door, rafe stands with his heart in his throat, pacing small tight circles on your porch.

he barely slept. woke up too early, too wired, nerves buzzing under his skin like electricity. he showered, dressed, changed shirts three times. he doesn’t even know why—like you’d notice, like you’d care. but he couldn’t help it.

and now that he’s here, now that he’s close enough to reach out and touch the handle, he feels like he might actually throw up.

he’s been replaying it in his head the whole walk up your driveway—what you’ll look like, what you’ll say, if you’ll smile at him or if you’ll glare. if you’ll look through him like he’s nobody, or if your eyes will soften just for him, like they used to.

he’s shaking. his palms are slick. he rubs them on his jeans, curses himself under his breath, whispers “fuck, get it together

but he can’t get it together. not when you’re on the other side of that door.

not when he knows in less than a minute, he’ll see you again.

he hears the shift of footsteps inside. the sound makes his lungs seize. his whole body goes rigid, like a hunting dog catching the scent.

and then—the knob turns.

the door creaks open. and there you are. the world tilts, just a little.

you stand there, framed by the light behind you, hair messy from nerves or sleep, lips parted like you were about to speak but forgot how.

he can’t breathe.

he thought about this moment all night, all morning, but nothing prepared him for the real thing. the sheer impact of you.

you’re not dressed up, not trying, not even ready for him, but god—you’re still the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.

and you—you forget every line you rehearsed.

you forget marcus, forget the lies, forget why this is bad.

because rafe is standing there, tall and broad and unsteady, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in existence.

and it’s that stare. that stare you know too well.

hungry and broken and worshipping all at once, like he hasn’t seen water in months and you’re the ocean.

it pins you in place. it strips you bare. it feels like he’s looking through your skin, down into the marrow of you, like he could name every thought in your head if he wanted to.

you can’t move. can’t speak. neither can he.

so you just stand there, the two of you, drowning in silence but louder than any noise. longing stretches between you like a rope pulled too tight.

his jaw works, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

your chest aches. your hands twitch at your sides. god, you missed him. you hte how much you missed him.

the air between you buzzes. it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to this doorway, this stare, this unbearable almost.

rafe swallows hard, his throat bobbing. his eyes flicker down your face, linger on your mouth for a heartbeat too long, then drag back up to meet yours again.

you can feel it. the pull. the inevitability, but you don’t look away and neither does he.

just standing there, staring, longing, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavy between you.

and in that moment, you both know. you never really left each other. not then. not now. not ever

no no no no. that’s what you’re telling yourself, standing in the doorway with rafe right there, close enough you could reach out and feel the heat of him if you wanted. no no no no.

you’ve repeated it so many times in your head it almost sounds like a prayer. like maybe if you chant it enough you’ll convince your hands not to shake, your lungs not to ache, your heart not to pound like it remembers something your mind swears it’s forgotten.

but your body? your body is saying yes yes yes yes.

the way your breath catches, the way your pulse quickens, the way your skin hums just from his stare alone—it’s all yes.

and rafe feels it too. you can see it in the way his shoulders rise and fall too fast, in the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding back something feral, in the way his eyes—god, those eyes—are devouring you, drinking you down whole, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever fed him

he doesn’t even say hello. doesn’t move, doesn’t try to bridge the silence. it’s like he knows words would ruin it, knows this moment is too raw, too much for something as flimsy as a greeting.

the world is suspended. nothing exists except this—him, you, the ache. the longing

and maybe it would’ve stayed like that, stretched thin and unbearable, if it weren’t for the way your fingers twitch, traitorous, craving the familiar weight of him

before you know what you’re doing, you’re reaching. closing the distance. grabbing him by the collar of his shirt like you’ve done a thousand times before, except this time it’s desperate, reckless, breaking every rule you swore to yourself you’d keep

rafe stumbles forward with the force of it, eyes flashing wide for a second before they darken, his lips parting like he might say your name.

but you don’t let him.

you tug him inside instead, shutting the door behind you with a slam that feels like sealing yourselves into some kind of secret chamber. the lock clicks loud in the silence, final.

and then you turn. slowly, like it takes everything in you. you face him, standing there in the light of your hallway, too close, too big, too much.

you tilt your chin up, meet his eyes, and it’s like staring straight into your own undoing

rafe looks at you like you’re carved into his very bones. like he’s memorized you and still can’t get enough.

his throat bobs. his hands flex at his sides. his whole body is tense, like he’s holding himself back with chains that could snap at any second.

you drink him in, every line of him, every shadow. it feels like your chest might crack open from the sheer force of wanting.

and then, before you can stop yourself “hi.” it slips out soft. shy. nervous. a whisper, barely there. fuck i’m so dumb, you think to yourself.

it’s like you’re sixteen again, meeting him for the first time. like none of the pain ever happened, like this is the first spark all over again.

your own voice betrays you. because it trembles. because it’s tender when you swore you’d be cold.

rafe’s lips part, his breath catching at the sound, like it shattered something inside him.

that’s all it takes, one word. and the whole world tips, crumbles, catches fire.

his lips part, and for the first time since you opened the door, he tries to speak“i missed y—”

you don’t let him finish.

because the second you hear it, the second you realize he’s about to say it out loud—out in the open, raw and dangerous—the panic flares hot in your chest. you don’t wanna hear those words so you panic…

panic, but also need. need so sharp it slices through you before you can think. so you silence him the only way you know how.

your mouth on his.

the kiss is reckless. too fast, too hard, too desperate to be anything but hunger finally let loose. you press up onto your toes, fingers still fisted in his collar, dragging him down into you like you’re drowning and he’s air.

rafe makes a sound against your mouth, a groan that rumbles from his chest straight into yours. it vibrates through you, makes your knees weak, makes your head spin.

he kisses you back like a man possessed, like he’s been starving for you, and now he’s finally allowed to eat. his mouth moves against yours with the kind of desperation that should scare you but instead makes you melt.

his hands find your waist, clutching tight, almost bruising. he pulls you in flush against him, like if there’s even an inch of space between you, he might combust.

it’s too much. it’s not enough.

your head is spinning. your chest is aching. your body is screaming yes yes yes.

and then you rip yourself away. you stumble back, gasping, lips swollen, heart hammering so loud you swear it echoes in the quiet hall

“fuck,” you whisper, shaking your head, your hand flying to your mouth like you can stuff the moment back inside “fuck, i’m sorry. i—i don’t know why i did that.”

your voice cracks. the truth is—you do know why. you’ve always known why.

but saying it out loud would mean admitting what you’ve just done. what you’ve just set in motion.

and you can’t. you can’t.

rafe’s chest is heaving, his pupils blown wide, lips reddish and wet from you. he stares at you like you just ripped the ground out from under him, but he’s not angry. he’s wrecked. undone. more alive than you’ve seen him in months.

“don’t be sorry,” he whispers, voice rough, shaky. “don’t—don’t you dare be sorry, baby.”

you turn too fast, like the motion itself might cut the tension, might shake off the weight of his stare still burning into your skin

your feet carry you down the hall, toward the kitchen, because that’s what you do when you don’t know what else to do—you run.

you don’t look back, don’t dare, but you can feel him. you can feel him following.

his footsteps echo yours, just a half beat behind, like a shadow that refuses to let you go. pathetic, really. like a dog trailing after its owner, helpless and obedient.

and maybe you should hate him for it. maybe you should hate how easily he slips into that role for you—how he always has. but instead it makes your chest ache, makes your hands tremble as you grab the counter and lean hard into it like it’s the only thing holding you up.

you stare at the grain of the wood, at the shine of the faucet, at anything but him

“i’ll hate myself for this” you whisper. the words slip out before you can stop them, cracking in the middle

for a second, silence. you think maybe he didn’t hear, maybe he’ll let it die in the air.

“you won’t,” rafe says. his voice is rough but steady. sure. too sure

you squeeze your eyes shut, shake your head once. “i will.”

you hear him behind you, a sharp inhale. then, softer, closer now “i won’t.”

you turn at that. slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll see, even though you already know

and there he is, standing in the doorway like he belongs there, like he’s been standing in that very spot in every version of your life, waiting for you to turn around

his eyes catch yours and hold, pinning you in place “i won’t hate you,” he says again, firmer this time. “not for this.not for leaving.”

and god, it’s pathetic. it’s devastating. the way he says it, like a promise carved into stone, when you both know how unsteady he is, how easily he crumbles.

you believe him anyway. at least part of you does, because rafe has never been good at lying when it comes to you. not about this, you tw. not about love.

you grip the counter harder, nails biting into the wood. your heart is a wild, messy thing in your chest, beating against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw yourself into him and never let go but instead, you just stand there, staring, while the silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.

and both of you know—you’re already too far gone. again.

he steps closer. just one inch. then another. the space between you shrinks until it’s unbearable.

your chest hammers, your stomach coils, your hands twitch like they want to claw at him or at yourself—you don’t know which.

“i shouldn’t even—” you start, voice shaking, but he doesn’t stop. he never does. he’s closer now, too close, and it’s like the air itself is pulling him toward you

“i know,” he murmurs. low, desperate, like he’s trying to catch you in his voice before you slip away completely

“i’m a fucking cheater,” you snap, the words tasting bitter in your mouth. “i have a boyfriend, rafe. and i kissed you. i let you do that. i—”

“shh,” he interrupts, but it’s not gentle. it’s needy. almost pleading “don’t say that.”

but you have to. you need to. need to shove the truth into the air so it burns between you, so maybe it can keep you from doing something worse

“i’m fucked in the head,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “i don’t even know why i—why i let it happen. i—i’m… i’m everything i swore i wouldn’t be.”

rafe’s eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and he tilts his head, like he’s memorizing your voice, your tremor, the way the words break when you try to speak them.

“you’re not a cheater,” he says, voice rough, low, carrying that desperate weight that’s always been his curse. “not to me. not when it’s me. i—i won’t let you be. not like that.”

you step back instinctively, but your feet hit the counter. nowhere to go. the walls seem to close in

“i don’t give a—” you begin, then falter, voice catching “i don’t give a fuck, rafe. i’m—i’m—i’m wrong. i’m a mess. i’m a bad person. and you—you’re… you’re gonna think i’m terrible, and maybe you hate me now, maybe—”

he moves again. closer. closer. and this time, your body doesn’t follow your orders. your stomach flips, your knees weaken, your chest feels like it’s about to burst.

his hand rises slowly, almost trembling, and hovers near your jaw. near enough to brush, near enough to claim

“stop,” you whisper, voice tight, sharp. “don’t.”

he doesn’t

“i… i kissed you,” you say again, louder, trembling. “i did that. i’m… i’m—i’m everything i swore i wouldn’t be. i’m cheating on someone i like with you, rafe! do you know what that is? do you know what kind of person does that?”

he swallows hard, pupils dilated, throat bobbing. “i… i don’t care,” he says. almost too softly, almost too broken to hold up the weight of it. “i don’t care. just… don’t leave. don’t run.”

you shake your head violently. “i should! i have to! i can’t… i can’t do this. it’s wrong. i’m wrong. i’m fucked.”

this time your heart rebels in rhythm with him. your lungs betray you, your hands want to touch him even as you push away.

“i won’t let you leave,” he says, voice tight, almost ragged. “not from me. i… i love you, okay? god, i love you so much it’s killing me and it’s pathetic and it’s too much and it’s—”

“stop saying that!” you whisper, almost screaming. “i can’t—i can’t be the one you love. not now. not like this. i’m wrong! i’m a disaster! i’m a bad person! you’re a bad person!”

his eyes darken further. he leans in just a fraction, enough that the heat from his chest radiates against yours. his breath fans over your face

“doesn’t matter,” he growls, voice breaking. “i don’t care if it’s wrong. i don’t care if you’re a mess. i don’t care if you’re with someone else. i… i just want you. i’ll take you however you are.”

and you want to scream, want to collapse, want to kiss him again and beg him to stop—but your brain fights, clawing for some semblance of morality

“i—i can’t,” you choke. “i… i… i—”

he groans low, frustrated, desperate, and takes another tiny step closer. his hand finally grazes your jaw, feather light, like he’s testing the world to see if you’ll break.

“then don’t think,” he whispers. “don’t think. just… be. with me. right now.”

and you feel the pull, the gravity of him, the weight of everything you’ve always tried to resist. it’s overwhelming

your hands twitch again, tempted to close the gap, to touch, to fall completely into the madness that is rafe cameron

“i… i’m wrong,” you whisper again, voice breaking. “i’m… i’m a fucking mess. and you… you’re… i—”

and he cuts you off with the smallest motion, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling into your hair “i know,” he says, low and ragged. “i know. that’s why i love you. all of it.”

and the words land in your chest like bricks, heavy, suffocating, impossible. he’s not wrong. he’s never been wrong.

and suddenly the room, the air, the distance between you—it all disappears.

you’re standing there, trembling, hearts pounding, denying it in your head while your body screams yes.

and rafe? pathetic, needy, desperate rafe is leaning in, letting himself be pulled apart by you, letting himself be yours, letting himself love you in a way that’s dangerous, messy, unstoppable.

you don’t step back this time. your body betrays you completely, leaning into him even as your mind screams.

his hands find yours, clutching, tangling, refusing to let go. you twist your fingers around his, heart hammering in protest, in anticipation, in terror

“i shouldn’t,” you whisper, but it’s weak. you’re trembling too much for it to mean anything.

he groans low, almost a growl, and presses his forehead to yours. “you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not possession, not exactly. it’s desperation, need, something uglier and more beautiful than anything else you’ve ever felt.

your lips brush, accidentally, almost accidentally, and he takes it as permission. fingers slide up your arms, hands on your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip

“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged, low in his throat. “god, you’re mine.”

“i have a boyfriend,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips

“i don’t care,” he says. simple. final. a confession, a threat, a plea. he presses you closer

and you? you melt into it. hands wander, not caring about rules, not caring about morals, not caring about consequences. yours trace the line of his jaw and his, his trace every single part of you that he can.

he kisses you again, desperate, claiming, but it’s rough, not tender—not fully. teeth graze your lip, tongue slipping in, exploring, testing, as if he’s mapping you, needing to remember every inch.

“i shouldn’t—” you whisper again, voice cracking.

“shhh,” he interrupts, fingers tangling in your hair. “don’t talk. don’t think. just feel.”

and you do. the guilt claws at your ribs. marcus. your promises. the life you’ve been trying to live. the right thing. all of it screaming at you to push him away, to run, to slam the door and lock it, to never look back.

but your body leans in, arches, presses. your stomach flips every time his fingers graze your hips, every time his lips leave yours for just a second and brush your jaw, every time he inhales sharply when your teeth graze his bottom lip

“god,” he groans. “i’ve missed this. missed you. missed… everything.”

“i shouldn’t,” you manage again. weak, trembling, but your hands betray you. sliding over the plane of his chest, down the slope of his ribs, brushing the heat of him

“you’re mine,” he murmurs again. and maybe he’s right. maybe the world would fall apart if he wasn’t

your breath hitches when his hand drifts lower, just grazing your hipbone, over your pants, just enough to make your knees go weak “rafe—”

“shhh” he interrupts, low, grave. “don’t say anything. just… feel it. i need this.”

your fingers trace the taut line of his shoulder, drift down his back, across the curve of him you’ve always memorized, the strength beneath the skin, the warmth.

his lips find yours again, and this time, it’s not just hunger—it’s confession, apology, devotion. every groan, every bite, every brush of his hands across you says: i’m yours. always.

and the guilt tears at you. nd the need tears at you.

the push and pull is insane. maddening. a rhythm you can’t escape, like a song you know the words to but keep singing anyway, louder and louder until it’s almost painful.

“we can’t—” you gasp, pressing a hand against his chest to push him back, and he groans again, crushing you to him, not letting the words land, not letting the thought breathe.

“don’t,” he growls. “don’t. just… one more time. one more. one more.”

the desperation in his voice, the rawness, the ache—it’s too much.

your fingers slide over the ridge of his jaw again, brush against the curve of his ear, and he shivers. groans into your mouth.

“god, i’ve been waiting for this,” he mutters, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck. “i’ve waited too long. too fucking long.”

and your knees nearly buckle under him, your mind screaming stop stop stop, but your body betrays you every second. every nerve ending alive and aching, every hair standing on end from his touch.

“rafe, i—i can’t—” you gasp, pressed flush against him, hands clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth

“i know,” he whispers, slow, deliberate. “i know. that’s why it’s perfect.”

your teeth scrape his bottom lip lightly, a tiny, inadvertent bite, and he groans deep in his chest, arms tightening around you.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice raw. “you feel too good. too much. too—god, you’re mine.”

you tremble against him, trying to remember who you are, trying to remember you have a life outside this kitchen, outside this doorway, outside him.

well…not when he’s here, hands wandering, lips claiming, breath hot against your neck. not when every nerve in your body is screaming yes yes yes.

your lips brush his again, soft, hesitant, trembling.

and then it slips “i missed you too,” you whisper, voice breaking, raw, carrying everything you’ve held back.

it’s pathetic. it’s messy. it’s everything.

he freezes for half a second, just long enough for your heart to hammer in your chest. then his arms tighten around you like he’s been holding this in, holding you in, for months

“finally,” he mutters, almost to himself, a groan buried low in his chest “fucking finally.”

you can feel him trembling, the heat of him, the desperation. the ache. god, the ache of him wanting you like this, like only he can

“hm?” he murmurs after a second, voice thick, low, almost dangerous. “one more time?”

your breath hitches. your body rebels, goosebumps rising along your skin. your chest is tight. your knees feel weak

“one more time,” you whisper back, lips brushing his, letting him taste it before you pull back, wid eyed, catching your breath.

“last time,” you add, voice barely more than a breath, but steady, like a warning. like a promise you might not keep but swear to anyway

he groans, low and ragged, like the word last is a knife, but he can’t help himself. he leans in and kisses you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to memorize every part of you before it’s over.

“sorry,” he whispers against your mouth, breath hot and ragged, trembling. “that… that was the last time.”

you feel it, the ache of it, the truth and the lie tangled together. the weight of what you both know—you’ll both pretend this is the last time, but you already know it won’t be. not really. not ever.

your hands clutch him like he’s gravity, like he’s air, like letting go would be death “i know,” you whisper back, voice breaking again. “i know.”

and the silence that follows isn’t really silence. it’s full. full of breathing, full of heat, full of the electricity between you.

“one more?” he murmurs again, voice low, almost pleading

“last time,” you murmur back, trembling, and press your lips to his again, slow, soft, tasting him, memorizing him, knowing it’s forbidden, knowing it’s dangerous, knowing it’s exactly what you both want.

he groans into you, hips pressing flush, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you like he’ll never let go “sorry,” he whispers again, voice breaking. “that… that’s really the last time.”

your knees almost give out. your chest is tight. your head spins.

and somehow, in that single moment, with your lips pressed together and your hands tangled in his hair, with his chest against yours and his groan vibrating against your mouth, the world contracts down to just you two.

last time. maybe. and yet, neither of you moves.

because the truth is, you’ll both lie to yourselves again, just like last night, just like every time before.

and you both know it. and still, you kiss.

again. and it’s perfect. and it’s wrong. sooo wrong

but it’s everything.

you pull back just slightly, enough to look into his eyes, trembling, breath coming uneven, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your chest.

“cross my heart and hope to die?” you whisper, voice barely there, a nervous laugh shaking the edges, and his lips twitch at the corner, just the faintest smirk tugging at the darkness in his expressio

“cross your heart…” he murmurs, voice low, rasping, almost breaking “…and hope to die.”

you swallow hard, eyes flicking down, feeling the heat radiating from him, the press of his body, the way your chest feels both heavy and hollow at the same time.

“okay,” you whisper. “…one last time.”

and god, it’s a lie neither of you believes, not even for a second. but it’s enough to pull him in, and the kiss—oh, the kiss—breaks everything.

soft at first, tentative, like both of you are testing the truth of it, and then hungry, desperate, clinging, like you’re trying to remember what months apart felt like, like you can cram it all into this single contact.

his hands slide up, framing your face, fingers feather light, caressing your cheekbones, thumbs brushing over your lips, over the corner of your jaw.

and your hands? god, your hands betray you completely. they slip up to his wrists, to his forearms, finally finding the curve of his hands pressed to your face, holding him, memorizing him, trembling with need.

you tilt your head into him, breathe him in, lips pressing just slightly against his palm, teeth grazing the back of his knuckle, and he groans softly, low and broken, vibrating through you like an electric current you can’t shut off.

“i… i missed you,” he mutters against your lips between shallow breaths, thumb tracing the line of your jaw again. “so fucking much.”

“me too,” you whisper, trembling, brushing your fingers across his hand, over the veins, the tendons, holding him like he’s a lifeline “…me too.”

his eyes close for a second, long enough that your chest twists. he leans into your touch, pressing his forehead against yours, still holding you, still claiming you

“god,” he groans, voice low and ragged. “you feel like too much. you always have. and i can’t—i can’t stop. can’t leave. can’t…”

“shh,” you whisper, running your hands along the backs of his fingers, over the hardness of his knuckles, the heat under his skin. “it’s okay. it’s fine. just… stay.”

his lips brush yours again, slow, soft, almost reverent this time. and your hands can’t resist—they travel from his wrists to his face again, tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck

“fuck,” he breathes, fingers pressing a little harder against your cheeks, thumb brushing over your lips again “i’ve been waiting… so long… for this. for you.”

“i know,” you whisper back, voice shaking. “i know…me too”

your hands won’t leave him. his hands won’t leave you. it’s like gravity and electricity combined—magnetism, obsession, addiction. your fingers entwine with his, palms brushing, over his hands that are still cupping your face, trembling slightly, holding you, claiming you, needing you

“i’m… god, i’m pathetic for you,” he mutters, voice low, hoarse. “…love you like this… like it’s the only thing that matters…”

“i know,” you whisper again, tilting your head against his, caressing the back of his hand with yours. “it’s okay”

the kiss breaks for just a second, barely an inhale between you, enough to gasp for air but not enough to really separate.

and then you’re back, pressed together, lips grazing, mouths moving with the unsteady rhythm of people who have waited too long, who are desperate for too much, who are addicted to each other in a way that’s beautiful and dangerous all at once

his hands linger on your face, fingers stroking over your skin, thumb brushing lightly across your lips, and you trace them, worship them with your own hands, holding onto him like he’s a tether to reality, to some fragment of the life you thought you’d los

“stay,” he whispers again, low, broken, needing “…just a little longer.”

“i…” you start, voice trembling, but you can’t finish. your hands are on him, and his hands are on you, and the world has collapsed down to heat, breath, heartbeats, and touch.

and he—pathetic, desperate, beautiful, broken rafe—leans in, forehead against yours again, holding you as if letting go would destroy him completely

and somehow, even in this moment of chaos, even in this madness of need and guilt and desire, there’s a fragile, fleeting kind of peace in the way your hands and his hands meet, trace, caress.

because for a second, the world narrows. the chaos doesn’t matter. the consequences don’t matter.

there is only you. only him. only this.

the last time? maybe. probably not.

you’re looking—really looking—into his eyes.

those eyes. dark, stormy, desperate, possessed, broken, worshipping. the ones that see straight through you, that unearth every hidden piece you’ve tried to lock away, the ones that make your chest ache and your knees weak and your heart hammer like it might shatter

“please,” he murmurs, low, hoarse, trembling slightly. “…please, baby…”

your pulse spikes. your breath hitches. every fiber of your being is vibrating at the pull of him, at the heat of him, at the sheer audacity of him even asking

“break up with him,” he whispers, voice tight, broken. “give me… one more chance. just one. please”

the words hit like a hammer. your stomach drops, twists, curls. guilt claws up your throat. marcus. everything you swore you wouldn’t do. everything you swore you’d be.

and yet…your body presses into him, trembling, betraying every thought in your head. your fingers brush along the side of his neck, tracing down the slope of his shoulder, curling around his wrists when they’re on your face

“rafe…” you whisper, voice shaky, soft, trembling. “…i—”

“baby,” he interrupts, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours, lips hovering just a breath away, voice ragged and desperate. “please… i can’t… not you. give me one more chance. i’ll… i’ll fix it. i’ll—i’ll be everything you need. just one more chance. please, please, please…”

he sounds needy. broken. desperate. the kind of broken that you’ve always wanted to mend but never could. the kind that makes you ache for him in ways that terrify you

and your hands clutch him tighter, trembling. your lips part, nearly grazing his, almost giving in. almost giving everything

“i… i don’t know—” your voice cracks. your chest feels like it’s ripping open. “…i can’t…”

“baby,” he groans, voice low, dangerous, shaking. “…i’m begging you. just… just one more chance. one more. break up with him…at least just for tonight. please…”

your heart twists, folds, unravels. because part of you wants to scream yes. part of you wants to throw yourself into him, press into him, melt into him, forget everything else.

but another part—the smaller, fragile part you cling to—whispers no. whispers stay away. whispers remember promises. remember consequences. remember that the world will burn if you give in entirely.

“i… i—” your breath catches, lips brushing his. “…god, i—”

he leans in anyway, forehead pressed against yours, nose grazing yours, eyes searching, trembling, desperate

“please,” he whispers, voice cracking, throat tight. “…baby. just one more chance. i’ll make it right. i’ll… i’ll—”

your hands, traitorous, slide from his face to curl around the back of his neck. your fingers thread through his hair, tug lightly, pull him closer, and he groans against your mouth, desperate, trembling, consumed by want

“i… i don’t know if i can—” you whisper again, body pressed flush to his. “…i’m scared. i… i don’t know if you… if this is real or—”

“it’s real,” he growls, voice low, almost rough with need and desperation “i swear it. i’m yours. always yours. i’ll prove it. baby… just one more chance.”

your lips tremble against his. your chest heaves. your stomach flips. your hands clutch him like you’re holding on to the only thing keeping you from falling apart

“one… last… chance?” you whisper, almost a question.

“yes,” he groans, trembling, voice raw. “just… one… please. one… for me. i… can’t lose you. not again.”

the words, the desperation, the heat, the ache…they hit you like fire.

and you… your body betrays you. your lips hover just over his again. your hands hold him closer. your chest presses against his

and even as your mind screams that this is wrong, even as your brain rattles with every ounce of guilt, need, and longing, your body betrays you completely.

because he’s rafe. and he’s desperate. and he’s always been yours.

and just like that, the kitchen, the hallway, the locked door—they disappear. there is only the pull of each other. only the hunger, only the ache, only the dangerous, messy, beautiful obsession that is rafe cameron

and tonight… tonight feels like the edge of the world. tonight feels like you might fall.

and somehow, even knowing all that, you don’t pull away. you can’t. because part of you… wants to give him that chance.

and god, you’re terrified of what it will cost you. but for just a heartbeat, you let yourself hope.

“fuck, rafe,” you whisper, voice breaking, almost strangled “…one… one more chance.”

he freezes, just for a second, like he can’t believe what he heard. then his whole body relaxes ever so slightly, but only ever so slightly, because he’s still tense with want, need, desperation

“wait,” he breathes, low and rough, voice almost trembling. “fuck … you mean it?”

you swallow, your lips trembling, eyes burning, fingers tightening on his buzzed hair “i do. one more chance. okay? but… god, rafe… please… don’t fuck this up.”

“don’t worry,” he murmurs, and the rasp in his voice makes your chest ache. “i won’t. i promise. just, please… just let me.”

you shake your head, laugh shakily, heart pounding too fast to catch it all. “jesus… you’re insane, you know that?”

“i know,” he says, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes betray him—they’re burning, desperate “…but i don’t care. i… i’m yours, always. can’t… won’t… not you.”

you press your forehead to his, breathing mingling, fingers still tangled in his hair, thumb tracing the line of his jaw “…you’re unbelievable,” you whisper. “…i should hate you. i don’t. i want you.”

he groans low, trembling, a hand sliding from your hip to your back, pulling you flush against him. “i’ve wanted you. always. can’t… couldn’t… god, i’ve been an idiot. but i’m here. now. finally. please… let me fix it. just… one more chance.”

“jesus, rafe,” you mutter, lips brushing his in a trembling, teasing way, “…i’m giving it to you. one more. but if you break me… if you hurt me again—”

“i won’t,” he interrupts, voice low, heavy, a promise and a prayer all at once “…i swear i won’t. just… let me try.”

you can’t help it. your lips press against his again, slow, then more insistent. your hands roam over him, over the slope of his back, up to his shoulders, tangling in the muscles there, feeling him, claiming him, remembering him

“god, you feel too good,” he groans, voice ragged against your mouth, fingers clutching your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. “…i’ve missed you. missed you like i can’t even… fuck, i need you.”

“i need you too,” you whisper back, heart in your throat, breath hitching. “…fuck, rafe…”

he groans, low, dark, desperate, pressing on you, tilting his head, deepening the kiss “…i’m never letting you go. not again.”

you gasp against him, lips parting, letting him take more, press harder, hands sliding over his chest, over his arms, holding on like he’s the only tether to the ground you have

“one more chance…” you murmur again, breathless, “…but god, rafe… i don’t know if i can…i’m terrified.”

“i know,” he groans against your lips, forehead resting against yours, voice low, trembling “and i’ll take it. all of it. fear, guilt, everything. i’ll handle it. jus let me love you.”

chest pressed to chest, stomach knotting with need, desire, and the ache of finally giving in. “…okay,” you whisper, trembling. “…one more chance. but just… just promise me…”

“i promise,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours again, soft, desperate, claiming, “…i won’t let you go. not tonight. not ever.”

and just like that, the tension, the guilt, the chaos—they’re still there, simmering under the surface, but you let yourself lean in, melt into him, let the world shrink down to just you two, breathless, tangled, addicted, finally, finally giving in.

his hands follow every line of your body they can reach, cupping, caressing, clutching, desperate not to let go.

“fuck,” he groans low, deep in his chest, “…i’ve waited for this. for you. always you…”

“always me,” you whisper back, voice breaking, “…always us…”

the pull, the push, the want, the guilt, the ache—they all collapse into one moment, one breath, one touch.

even now you two are still here, still at the restaurant…

masterlist

note- maybe pt 3 ??? bf finds out, bf number 2 doesn’t care, maybe smut??

tags @rafesbabygirl @prettytheyswag @rgrimes @whosyourmommy69 @abireichstein @silkylovey @macbaetwo @t0x1cfaerie @imliterallysocoolfr @sydneysslove @bebebambs @loverliner @beabogsims @meetmeintheemeraldpool @dsfault @rosetintmworld @daddyrafeslittleslut @drewsephrry <-(no cannibalism tho) @emeloyy @littlelamy @maybankslover @artbymin @rafesslutt @aliluvssyou @Ihhlver @lovedrewstarkey @octoberbxbyy @em-21 @heartsforrafecam @heartzshiftamy @artbymin @aweasleyobrien to get tagged