#lies down on the ground..........this chapter..........

 -

“Do you have someone important to you?” Mihawk asks.

It is a simple question, but jarring, in its suddenness — only seconds ago he was flung over a cliffside with a knife embedded in his guts, falling into the sea below. Now he is lying on the beach of Kuraigana, out of breath. His right eye has closed shut, swollen. Cold waves lap at his legs, numbing the pain.

It might be the throbbing stab wound, or the fact that he can’t even lift his own head now, that compels him to indulge Mihawk. “You know I do,” Zoro answers. “My captain. My crew.”

“Not the kind you would die for,” Mihawk says slowly. “Not the ones you would show your back to.”

Zoro watches Mihawk walk through the shallow water, ripples spreading. His legs are freezing and his stab wound burns hot, like a brand. “What do you mean.”

“Not the ones you protect,” Mihawk says as he stops to stand beside him. “Nor one you swear your loyalty to. But someone you would stand with, side by side.”

A certain blonde immediately flashes through Zoro’s mind, and he looks away. “And what if I do?”

Mihawk bends down over him, and for a moment Zoro thinks he’s going to offer him a hand; but Mihawk’s outstretched hand reaches towards the hilt of the knife instead, and Zoro can barely react as Mihawk pulls — the burning in his guts explodes to a fever-pitch as he doubles over in pain.

“Fuck!” He yells, clutching at his stomach. The seawater leaves pinpricks of pain against his wound. He thinks he’s going to throw up. “Fuck fuck fuck — why would you do that —”

“Remember this pain,” Mihawk says, and he rests the bloodstained blade against Zoro’s eyelid. “I will ask you another question, next time.”

“You fucking asshole,” Zoro yells, no longer caring about Mihawk’s cryptic words. Red floods his vision as Mihawk presses, and Zoro lets go.

-

“Stupid Cook,” he yells, staggering backwards as he tries to block the flurry of kicks aimed his way. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sanji doesn’t answer. He spins instead, the movement blowing dust around them and catching Zoro off guard; he coughs just as a kick manages to slip past his defenses, slamming straight into Zoro’s chest. It knocks the breath out of him.

Remember this pain, he remembers Mihawk said, and grits his teeth around Wadou. He bats another kick away from him and slams the hilt of Enma against Sanji’s throat. “Oi, Swirly,” he growls, yanking him by the collars with his free hand as the Cook chokes and sputters. “Stop ignoring me — what do you want?”

Cold, dead eyes stare back at him. Zoro remembers the freezing water of Kuraigana, lapping at his feet.

“I don’t want anything,” the thing says — with Sanji’s mouth, with Sanji’s voice; but not with his warmth. “You’re simply in my way,”

Zoro makes a piercing cut with Kitetsu, and his heart sinks as he sees Sanji block the attack with his hands — the treasured hands of a cook.

Zoro thinks of his bleeding arm and bruising ribs and split lips — of Mihawk’s knife, slicing through his eye — and he knows none of those hurt as much as the cold way Sanji looks at him right now.

-

“That Cook of yours,” Mihawk begins.

Zoro scowls at him. Lightning flashes overhead, and the rain is soaking the bandage over his eye; the wetness makes it itch, but it doesn’t hurt anymore, and it is the least of his concerns right now. “He’s not mine —”

“The Cook, then,” Mihawk concedes. “What would you do if he was going to die?”

He immediately sits up straight. Mihawk has parried and flung all his swords away during their earlier spar, but he instinctively reached for them anyway, only to be met with empty hilts. He clenches his fist, frustrated. “What the fuck kind of question is that.”

“It invokes a different kind of pain, isn’t it?” Mihawk continues, clearly ignoring Zoro’s reaction. “You are used to wounds left behind by sharp blades and closed fists.”

“What is it to you,” he rasps.

Mihawk shakes his head. “Your enemy will not always be so kind.”

He bends down to pick Wadou up from the ground, and throws it back to its owner. “You need to be prepared for everything, Roronoa,” he says, unsheathing Yoru once again as Zoro staggers to his feet, Wadou back in his hands. “Now tell me — what would you do if he were to die?” 

-

It has started raining, but Sanji’s fire burns bright still. Smoke fills the space between them; Zoro coughs, suffocated.

“You know,” Zoro says, together with a swing of Kitetsu. Ever bloodthirsty, it manages to nick the underside of Sanji’s leg. “Someone important to me asked me to stop you.”

The thing that wears Sanji’s face doesn’t seem particularly interested, kicks unrelenting. “I don’t care.”

You need to be prepared for everything, Roronoa, Mihawk’s voice says, like a ringing in his ears. What would you do if he were to die?

He crosses Enma and Kitetsu in front of him, but instead of blocking, he tips the dull sides of the blades towards Sanij’s leg. He steps back and swings upwards just as Sanji kicks, tipping the Cook backwards, and he rushes — pushing the Cook’s calf against his chest and using his own body weight to pin him down.

His whole body aches; warmth leeches out through his sodden boots. He can feel the effects of Chopper’s medicine fading, swallowed by the pain.

“He asked me, ” he repeats, mostly to himself. He bends down, placing Wadou’s blade against Sanji’s neck. “Because he believed I could do it. Because he believed in me.”

He earns no response; Sanji doesn’t seem to care that he could die at any moment.

Zoro has held Wadou ever since he was twelve, but the sword has never been heavier between his teeth.

Zoro lets go.

-

“Don’t move, dummy,” Perona scolds him. Zoro glares at her, but tries his best to stay still — she is being nice enough to help him with the bandages, and her company is not entirely bad, once in a while. She always wraps them a little too tightly, but is perceptive enough to loosen them up when Zoro grunts at it.

The comfortable silence they fell into was broken with Perona’s inquisitive, “Hey, what’s up with that thing you and Mihawk always do?”

Zoro tilts his head. “What thing?”

“The questions,” she says. She then lowers her voice, in what seems to be an impressively accurate impersonation of Mihawk, “What would you do if he were to die? What a grim way to start every sparring session with.”

Zoro remembers Thriller Bark. Death clung to the place like carrion birds and carcasses; half-dead humans and fully-dead zombies and Perona’s own ghostly apparitions roaming its grounds. Perona doesn’t get to complain about something being too grim.

Perona tuts as she finishes wrapping Zoro’s right arm, and gratitude fills Zoro enough to stop him from starting an argument. “It’s… at first I thought he was trying to rile me up,” he tries instead. “But I understand now. It is only a thought experiment; a way to be prepared, and draw one’s strength from it.”

“Whaaaaaaat,” Perona says, elongating the word on purpose. Her ghosts pop up from behind her, as if to join in on the mocking. “You guys are so weird.”

“What’s not to understand?” Zoro asks, indignant. “It is unpleasant to think of, but swordsmen and martial artists alike have trained through mental simulations for a long time.”

“Not that part, silly. You have to make yourself think about it first, right?” Perona points out. “It is not something that comes naturally to you. ‘What would you do if he was going to die?’”

Her ghosts dance around him, and Perona laughs. Death clung to Thriller Bark and its residents, but Perona wears it like a royal garb. “Zoro, how did you ever convince yourself he wasn’t?”

-

“Why did you do that?” Sanji demands. He looks unlike the way Zoro has ever known him — face twisted, eyes haggard, like he hasn’t slept for days. He’s wearing an oversized blue sweater, and he looks like he’s drowning in it.

Zoro’s body aches all over, the pain deep and close to the bones. A few hours ago, Sanji stood before him with shaking shoulders, Bartholomew Kuma towering over them both. “Why did you?”

Sanji jerks back, as if struck. “I can’t —” he slumps into the chair by Zoro’s bedside, nails digging into the cushion. “Between the two of us, I received less injury. You could even barely stand.”

“And what do you think I should’ve done? Just sit down and let you walk into slaughter?”

“You offered your own life!”

“I survived,” Zoro crosses his arms, ignoring the pain shooting up his joints at the movement. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Sanji stands up again, face leaning close toward Zoro’s. “To me.”

Zoro opens his mouth to retort, but Sanji places his palm on Zoro’s forearm, the touch soothing and warm. “Next time, you need to let me go, Zoro.”

Zoro jerks away from the touch. “There will be no next time —”

“We’re pirates, Zoro! There is always a next time,” Sanji says, voice turning desperate. He grabs Zoro by the shoulders. “I’m not invincible, and neither are you. Of course I don’t want to die. But maybe, in some distant future, you’ll have to make this choice again. And if it ever comes to this, I need you to let me go.”

-

Kuina stands before him. She always looks so big, like this — head held high, her sword steady in her hands. She has cuts and bruises all over her body, but she smiles like she’s invincible.

That night, he will lose to her for the two-hundredth time. That night, she will stay undefeated. That night, they will share a promise.

Tomorrow, she will never smile again. Undefeated, but not invincible. Koshiro will hand him her white sword with shaking hands and barely-concealed tears, and Zoro will never let it go.

-

“What would you do if he were to die?” Mihawk asks, under the rain. It is not the only question he asks. “Would you let him go? Or would you let yourself be taken down with him?”

-

There is gravel digging against his back. Sanji is leaning on top of him, pinning him down.

“Why didn’t you do it?” Sanji asks, and it’s the first time Zoro hears a hint of emotions in his voice — something akin to distress. “Why did you let go of your swords?”

That one is a much easier question than Mihawk’s. “Because I love you, Cook.”

Sanji’s hands tighten around his neck, but it’s nowhere near his real strength. Zoro isn’t using any armament haki; Sanji could break his neck if he wanted to. He doesn’t. “I’m not — you know I’m different, now. I’m a monster now.”

“You are loud, and annoying, and such an asshole,” he says. “But you’re not a monster. You’re our Cook, and there is no world where I could imagine ever seeing you die. Not while I’m alive.”

Perona was right. It is not about being prepared — either he can, or he can’t. And Zoro can’t. Not when the Cook stood in front of Bartholomew Kuma on that graveyard of an island all those years ago, and not now, with Sanji’s fingers around his neck.

Mihawk thinks he needs to be prepared, or he’ll die. Perona thinks he should simply accept death — his own, and Sanji’s.

But there’s something Mihawk and Perona will never understand. 

“You believed in me,” he says. “So I’ll believe in you. You’re not a monster, Cook.”

He reaches out then, resting his palm on Sanji’s cheek. The skin is cold to the touch, like steel; but the wet tears that fall on his fingers are warm.

“Come back to me, Sanji.”

Zoro closes his eye. He doesn’t let go.

He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?

“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.

“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…

He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.

Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.

His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.

He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:

Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.

White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.

Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?

Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.

He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.

And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.

Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.

“Rafe. We need to talk.”

“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”

Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”

Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”

“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”

“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”

Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.

“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.

“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”

“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”

Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”

“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”

Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.

He leaves without another word.

He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.

Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.

He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.

At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.

“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”

He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.

“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”

Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.

He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”

Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”

Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”

“Who are you?”

He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.

“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.

“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”

It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.

“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”

Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.

“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”

It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.

He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”

“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”

The door slams in his face.

He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.

He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.

Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–

“What are you doing here?”

Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.

For a moment, you take his breath away.

“Go away, Rafe.”

Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.

Rafe catches up to you in two strides.

“Wait, I came to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”

You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.

“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”

You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”

“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”

Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.

“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”

He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”

Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.

“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”

You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”

“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”

He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”

“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me–”

“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”

Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.

“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”

“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.

“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”

It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.

“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.

“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”

“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?

“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.

“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”

You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.

“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”

Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.

***

It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.

And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.

For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.

Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…

“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.

It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”

They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.

It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.

Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…

“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”

Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.

Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”

His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”

“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”

“No.”

Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”

The thought of that makes him sick.

“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”

“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”

“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”

“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.

Fuck.

Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.

***

It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.

He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.

He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.

And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.

He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.

It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.

“You can’t do things like this.”

It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.

“Hello to you too.”

“You… You need to take this back.”

Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”

You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.

“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”

Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.

“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”

“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”

I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.

“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”

Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”

You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.

When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.

“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”

Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”

“D-Don’t touch me!”

There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.

“Wait–”

You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.

How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?

***

His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.

And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.

And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.

Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.

Rafe’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.

He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.

“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.

“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.

“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”

Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”

The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”

“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Who am I?”

When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.

“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”

Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”

“Yes!”

“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”

“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”

“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”

The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”

Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.

He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.

But what the fuck could he do?

***

He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…

Over his dead fucking body.

In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.

You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.

After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.

“Rafe, we need to talk.”

He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Yes, now. Come here, son.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”

“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”

His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”

“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”

Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–

“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”

“Mm.”

“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”

Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.

And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.

He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.

He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.

He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.

“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”

For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.

“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”

You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.

“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”

“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”

“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”

“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”

“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”

An incredulous pause, and then:

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.

And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.

Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…

He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.

Maybe.

***

“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.

Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”

Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”

“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.

“Look, there she is now.”

Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.

“Don’t fucking do that.”

You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.

“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”

“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”

Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.

“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.

There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.

“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”

“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”

One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”

They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.

“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?

“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”

Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”

Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.

“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”

“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”

You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.

“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”

“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”

It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.

“You shouldn’t go to that party.”

You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”

“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”

“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”

You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.

He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.

Rafe: Send me the location of that party.

***

Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.

Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.

“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.

“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”

“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”

“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”

“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.

“Prove it, bro.”

“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.

The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.

He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.

And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.

You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.

And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.

But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.

You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.

But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.

“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”

And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.

He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.

For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.

But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.

“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.

Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”

“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.

“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”

“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.

Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”

He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.

“That’s some dress.”

He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.

“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”

Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:

“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”

You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.

“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”

“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.

“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.

“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”

“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”

He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?

“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.

“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”

You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.

“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”

Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”

“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”

“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You sound like an addict, country club.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.

“Who’re you lookin’ at?”

“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.

“She’s cute,” Barry says.

“Shut up.”

“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”

That catches his attention, “You know her?”

“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”

Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.

“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.

Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”

Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.

“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”

He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.

Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.

Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”

Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”

Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.

“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.

The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”

“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”

“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”

Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”

He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”

“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?

“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”

You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”

That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”

“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”

“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.” 

Again, hurt flashes across your face. 

“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”

You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.

That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.

“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?

She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.

The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.

Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.

He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.

Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.

“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”

“What the hell!? I don’t know!”

He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.

He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.

He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Get out.”

The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”

Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.

“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”

The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”

That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.

You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.

“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”

“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.

He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.

You swallow, “I…I…”

“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”

Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”

“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”

You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”

He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”

“Neither are you!”

“I saved you.”

Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”

“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”

“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”

He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”

And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.

“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”

“You lied about everything.”

He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.

“G-Get away from me.”

“No.”

“Rafe. Don’t.”

You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.

Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I could’ve gotten away–”

“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.

Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”

“Only me.”

His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.

“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.

He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.

Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”

You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”

In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.

“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”

He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.

He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.

He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.

“Get in the car.”

Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”

You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.

Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”

His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t trust you.”

His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.

“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”

“I can handle myself–”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.

It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.

He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.

He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.

And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.

He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.

“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”

“What?”

“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”

“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.

 You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”

For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.

You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.

“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”

You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.

“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”

Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.

 “Get back in the car.”

Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”

You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”

He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.

“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.

“My house.”

You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.

*

Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.

“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.  

“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.

“You’re just drunk.”

“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”

It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.

He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.

“I didn’t know you had a gun.”

Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.  

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.

But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.

He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.

It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.

“Not your bedroom–”

“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.

You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.

“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”

“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.

“Just put it on.”

“I’m fine in this.”

Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.

“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”

You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”

He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”

“But you weren’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”

Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.

“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”

He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”

He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.

“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.

But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.

When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.

He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”

“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.

He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.

“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.

Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.

“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.

“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”

He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”

Silence. And then:

“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”

“That was nothing.”

“I see.” 

He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t. 

“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”

You nod, “Okay.”

It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.

And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl. 

“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.

Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”

“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.” 

“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.

“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”

He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”

“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”

He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.

“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”

Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.

“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”

“You can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”

Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.

“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”

He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...

Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.

“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.

“Just let me,”

“Rafe, no–”

“Please.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.

He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.

“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”

“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”

“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”

He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”

“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”

Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?

But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.

Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”

“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”

You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”

“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”

You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”

He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.

You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”

He exhales, “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.” 

He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”

You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.

Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.” 

“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.” 

“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”

You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.” 

“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.

“That’s what my mom says.” 

“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.” 

Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.

He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”

You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy. 

“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”

“N-No…”

“Yes.”  He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.

And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.

“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.” 

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.

“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.

“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”

Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.

But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.

He’s about to pull away when:

“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”

He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.

He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.

“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”

Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.

And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.

“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.

But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.

You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.

“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”

“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”

You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”

Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”

Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.

He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”

“Where’re you gonna–?”

He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.

“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”

Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”

You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.

It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.

Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.

It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest. 

He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.

***

It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.

So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.

Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.

Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.

Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.

Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.

Barry: ??? You’re fucked.

If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.

The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.

He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”

Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”

Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”

Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.

“Shit, that’s today?”

A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”

Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.

“I’m sorry.”

“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”

Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“What?”

Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”

Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.

“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”

“How come I’ve never seen her before?”

“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”

Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”

A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”

There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.

“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”

“Okay.”

Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.

Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.

And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.

Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.

A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???

Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!

Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!

Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?

What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?

What do you think Ward will think of reader?

Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?

His indignant face bursts in like an intruder in your mind. Suddenly, your survival instincts remember that you’ve been underwater for a while, and that you can’t breathe.

I lied, John. I never stopped loving you. I’m still in…

You don’t allow yourself to finish that thought as you break through the surface, gasping for air. The choked breaths scratching your throat are the only sounds you hear, and you remember that you’re the only one in the Aquatic Center.

And that it’s past 11:00 PM. Probably.

After regaining your breath, you swim towards the ladder on the edge of the pool, tightly gripping your callused hands on the metal bars to pull your body back onto the surface. And as you’re drying yourself off with your shammy, the faint click of a door opening and closing sends panic throughout your body.

You can’t think of anyone else who would be here at this hour. On a Thursday.

However, you recognize the face approaching you, and his unexpected presence relieves some of the alarm bells ringing through your head.

“Uh, hey,” You say nervously, still wringing out the water and chlorine in your hair as the hockey player approaches you. “What are you doing here?”

“Kendall told me where you’d be,” Garrett shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

You raise your eyebrows at him in confusion, and his lips contort into an “O” shape once he registers the puzzlement on your face.

“Oh, Kendall and I know each other. We used to…like, see each other, I guess?” He winces, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “She’s also a big hockey fan. She comes to a lot of our games and supports us, even when I acted kind of like an asshole towards her.”

“Wow, hockey players being assholes. I would’ve never thought,” The words tumble from your mouth before you could stop them, but Garrett smirks at your deadpan voice. “Seems to be a trend these days.”

“Oh, for sure. You should research the correlation between hockey players and assholeness.”

“I’ll pitch the idea to my stats professor,” You joke, and the both of you chuckle, and your chest lightens a tiny bit before an awkward silence comes along. After all, Garrett still didn’t answer your question.

Luckily, he reads your mind.

“Um, I wanted to check in on you. We didn’t get to talk after we finished our work,” He explains, alluding to the fact that you left the groupchat as soon as you submitted the project.

Your throat closes up when hearing his words, and you can only bring yourself to nod as you look down at the floor. You knew you had to take yourself off the groupchat. You were clearly imposing on John’s life. You were imposing on everyone’s lives.

“I still have your contact saved, but you haven’t responded to my messages. Or to Beau’s. But in any case, I wanted to talk to you in person,” He continues, but your eyes still fix themselves on a misplaced tile near the side of the pool. “I wanted to thank you, for everything.”

That sentence makes your head lift up. No, you must have surely misheard what he said. Why would he thank you?

“Uh, for what?”

“You were super helpful in the project. Seriously. Beau and I never understood a single word from Professor Rezkin’s mouth, and we never made the time to go talk to the TA about all the shit we didn’t understand. But you explained everything so clearly. And you were always so patient whenever we screwed something up. I know how to write a semi-decent literature review because of you,” Garrett adds with a laugh. “You definitely carried us. And I didn’t want to say all of that over text. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. So, thank you, Y/N.”

As usual, you feel the familiar pressure of tears sitting behind your eyes, the same tears that emerge whenever you receive a genuine compliment. You hurriedly blink them away before giving him a small smile.

“I appreciate it, Garrett. But you and Beau also put in a lot of effort,” You bite your lip, preparing yourself for what you’re about to say next. “And I really appreciate you guys meeting with me virtually after, um…”

“After Logan slithered his way from Hell and swapped identities with fucking Lucifer? Yeah, I don’t blame you for not wanting to meet us in person. God, he was such a maniac.”

Your eyes widen with every sentence, completely shocked with the level of Garrett’s exasperation. You never thought he would talk about his best friend that way, especially to you of all people. Shouldn’t Garrett view you as an enemy in his eyes?

“Yeah. I mean, he has every right to be mad at me. I just…wasn’t expecting that.”

“Trust me, none of us were. And that’s another reason why I wanted to speak with you in person, Y/N. I was rude when I first met you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m really sorry.”

Well, you’re even more shocked by that apology.

You realize just now that you never received a formal apology from Garrett about his own behavior. You remember how small and insignificant you felt under his gaze in the private study room. And you certainly remember the startling question he asked.

“Why are you back here?”

However, you never expected an apology from Garrett. Your ex’s comments hurt way more than any of Garrett’s words.

“I thought you were ‘staying away from me,’ huh?”

The fact that Garrett Graham, an acquaintance whom you only met a few weeks ago, is apologizing to you before your ex-boyfriend is fucking comical.

“Thanks, Garrett,” You say quietly, fiddling with the loose threads of your shammy. “I mean, I understand why you’re wary of me, though. You’re his best friend, and my breakup with John was horrible.”

“Sure, but I don’t think you’re intentionally bothering or pestering him. You’re keeping your distance, which is all you can do,” Garrett counters, still somehow coming to your defense. “It was just a coincidence that we ended up in the same group project together. And also, I’m not wary of you.”

You scoff, playfully raising your eyebrows at him. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Well, I’m not wary of you anymore,” He clarifies, raising his palms in surrender. “And I shouldn’t have been in the first place. That was unfair to you.”

Giving him a tight-lipped smile, you nod, not knowing what else to say.

You haven’t exactly processed what Logan said to you. You don’t even have the time to process your ex’s words in the first place.

What happened that night at his house was not even the worst thing that happened to you this semester. And everything is only going to get worse.

“Um, I’m gonna head out. I’ve been here for hours. Thanks for stopping by,” You rush your words, starting to turn away from him to walk towards the lockers.

Maybe that’s an abrupt way to end the conversation, but for your sake, you don’t think you can talk to Garrett anymore without thinking about Logan.

“Oh, wait a second! I also wanted to see if you are down to come to our Halloween party at the house this Saturday,” Garrett calls out, and your body freezes as you halt your steps. “I’m pretty sure Kendall told you about it, right?”

Yup, Kendall did inform you about the Halloween party. A few days ago, she sent a photo of the flyer in the groupchat you have with your teammates, and everyone instantly texted her back, saying that they were “sooo excitedddd” to attend the party. When you didn’t respond, Kendall texted you personally, checking to see if you were planning on going, and that the girls would love for you to pregame with them.

Though these past few weeks have been absolutely horrendous, you somehow managed to form a solid friendship with Kendall. You still hang out with the rest of your teammates, but you see Kendall more often than the others. You appreciate all of the study sessions, coffee dates, and late night drives that you spend with her.

And if it were any other party, you would go. In fact, you’ve been waiting to go to a party. You haven’t gone out at all this semester, and you deserve to have a fun night.

But you can’t go back to that house.

“Yeah, she did,” You reply to him, preparing to give the same answer that you gave to Kendall. “I’ve been busy, though, and I want to unwind a bit this weekend. So I’m sorry, I can’t go.”

“You sure? There’s no pressure, obviously, but we would love to have you. I know Beau definitely wants to catch up with you. We haven’t seen you in class for a bit. We’ve also been coming to your home meets so that we could see you, but you were absent in the past three ones, right?”

Right again, Mr. Graham.

Also in the past month, you have spent several nights over at the hospice center, and you have forgotten to let people know about your absence. After missing practice for the third time, Coach Alvarez pulled you into her office, bluntly warning you that if you have another unexcused absence again this semester, she will consider suspending you from the team.

Her tone scared the absolute shit out of you, and finally, you knew you had to tell someone about your home life, and about why you came back to Briar.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” You pleaded with her as your nails dug into your skin. “Please, Coach, I can’t have anyone know.”

“Of course not, Y/N,” She relieved you in a tone so gentle that you thought you were dreaming. She took her hand out for you to hold, which you graciously took.

“I’m sorry that you’re going through this. And you shouldn’t go through it alone. I won’t tell anyone else about it, I promise. But I do encourage you to talk with the Dean of Student Affairs. If you explain your situation to them, they can grant you some Emergency Absences. Your professors will have to abide by those rules, and they wouldn’t know the specifics of your situation.”

You nodded, and when she squeezed your hand tighter, you broke down in tears.

Other people have certainly noticed your absence. Briar’s weekly student newsletter has even reported on it. An editor had asked students attending the meets about the diver they most looked forward to seeing, and the responses overwhelmingly titled in your favor.

And apparently, Garrett has also observed your decline in attendance.

“I would love to catch up with Beau, too. I just…” You stop, wondering how to phrase the next part. “With all due respect, I don’t feel comfortable coming to your house.”

Garrett’s expression is completely unfazed, as if he was expecting that response.

“That’s totally fair, and I don’t want to push you. I just wanted to let you know that we’d love to see you,” He reassures you, but the ease on his face quickly drops when he mutters the next few sentences. “And for your information, we all confronted Logan for how he treated you right after you left our place. We don’t condone his behavior at all. He also told everyone that you were his ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t elaborate.”

The floor feels unsteady beneath your feet. “So, you guys all know about our relationship?”

But the question you’re implicitly asking is different. So, you guys still want to see me?

“We do. We don’t know what happened, but that’s between you guys. I understand that you don’t want to see Logan, but if you choose to come to the party, we’ll have your back. And if he acts out, we’ll lock him in up his room. Put him in his kennel.”

You laugh when hearing his assurance, and your heart swells at the sincerity in his tone. “Like a dog?”

Garrett smirks, confidently nodding his head. “Precisely.”

You think that your eardrums rupture as soon as you enter their house.

Somehow, after enduring some of the most incessant pleading from your teammates, you decided to go to the boys’ Halloween party. Even though Kendall’s puppy dog eyes were particularly persuasive, it was the conversation that you had with Garrett two days ago that ultimately led you to put on some white bike shorts and a tank top to form a makeshift Padmé Amidala costume. Nour was kind enough to lend you some holsters and toy guns to complete your outfit. And honestly, with all of the shit you’ve suffered through these past few weeks, you’re excited to have a fun night out with your teammates. You desperately needed a break.

Luckily, the house is packed to the brim, so you don’t see your ex-boyfriend immediately. And, if the universe finally decides to grant some of your wishes, you hope that you never see him at all tonight. A girl could only dream.

“Shot time!” Kendall hollers, and suddenly she’s dragging you to the kitchen, leading you through hordes of Briar students. When you stop by the kitchen counter, you hear a friendly voice call out your name.

“Y/N!” Tucker blurts out, wearing what you can only guess to be an Indiana Jones costume. “I’m glad you made it! Garrett told us that you weren’t sure about coming.”

“Yeah, I just…had some reservations, I guess,” You shrug, vaguely alluding to what happened last time you were in this house.

Tucker gives you a reassuring nod, whereas Kendall’s looking at you with puzzled eyes. Her focus then quickly deviates to the vodka in front of her, and she begins to pour some shots.

“Understandable,” Tucker says, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t air out your business for the other partygoers to hear. “It’s been a stressful semester. But we always host a Halloween party, no matter how busy we get.”

“Amen,” Kendall chimes in, giving both you and Tucker some shots. “And you guys deserve to throw a party after finally getting a win. Those losses were painful to watch. I don’t know what was up with fuckin’ Logan, but I’m glad he got his head back in the game.”

Your body involuntarily freezes at her words, and Tucker notices. As you stare into your shot glass, you have no idea what to respond, but Tucker fills in the silence.

“Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks for him, I guess,” He responds with a grimace. “But hey, we’re back now. And I’m gonna drink to that.”

“Hell yeah!” Kendall yells, and you chuckle as she pushes her tiara back, still maintaining her Princess of Genovia costume. “It’s shot o’clock, baby!”

“Whoa! Who’s taking shots without me?” A familiar voice shouts through the kitchen, and your heart warms when seeing his matching Zoolander costume with Dean. “Y/N! You’re here!”

“In the flesh,” You can’t help but smile when Beau stumbles on his feet and clumsily goes to hug you. Already, you can tell that he’s definitely a few drinks in.

“Dude, I never got to thank you for all of your help with that fuckin’ project. You rescued us from what would’ve been a shitshow.”

“They were always complaining about that class,” Dean jokes, his long wig about to fall off at any moment. You can’t take him seriously in his Hansel costume. “I’m just glad I don’t have to hear any more complaints now.”

You laugh with the rest of the group. “Where’s Garrett?”

“Sucking Hannah’s face, per usual,” Dean rolls his eyes, before going to mock Garrett. “‘Oh, she’s just my Philosophy tutor, guys.’ Shitty ass liar. Makes me sick.”

Kendall had told you that Garrett was seeing a girl named Hannah. After everything you heard from your teammate about Garrett’s love life, you’re surprised that he seems serious about his ‘Philosophy tutor’. But even though he was an asshole to you in the beginning, you now know deep down that he was a genuinely nice person.

“Jesus, can we take a shot now?” Kendall sighs impatiently, and the whole group raises their glasses, and you gladly take your shot with them, chuckling when the vodka spills all over Beau’s costume.

The rest of the night goes quite smoothly. After you catch up with Beau in the kitchen, you mingle with Kendall the majority of the time, before Garrett sees you from the air hockey table and gestures for you to come over, a short brunette by his side.

“This is Hannah,” He motions between the two of you, and she smiles at you while shaking your hand. “And this is Y/N, aka the Sociology G.O.A.T.”

“It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve always wanted to go up to you after your meets,” She says enthusiastically, and you can’t help but blush at her comment.

“You’ve been to my meets before?”

“Of course! All of Briar was talking about you when you transferred here in August. I’ve also wanted to finally meet the person that helped him go from a C- to a B in Rezkin’s class,” She jokes, and the smile that Garrett gives her is so full of love.

The three of you talk before going over to the dining table to play some beer pong with some other students and hockey players. You’re on a team with Garrett and Hannah, and at some point in the game, you forget that your ex even lives here.

When you throw the winning shot, you then hear a fanfare of whistling and clapping.

“Awesome shot,” A tall man to your left smirks at you, and you awkwardly smile back, trying to figure out if you knew this guy at all.

“Thanks. It’s been a while since I played.”

“Really? You looked like a natural. I need you on my team next time,” He winks, and you try your best not to cringe at his tone. When you turn to look on your right, you realize that Garrett and Hannah have disappeared into the crowd. Fuck.

“Uh, sure,” You hesitantly shrug, at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, have I met you before?”

“No, we haven’t met. I’m Tom,” He introduces himself, and you don’t miss how his eyes scan your body. “I’ve been to every single one of your home meets. You’re a fantastic diver. When I heard that Briar’s diving team was coming tonight, I knew I had to pull up.”

You try to ignore the sirens wailing in your hand, so you grip your palms on the table, trying to subtly dart your eyes around the room to find someone who could get you out of this situation.

Tom keeps on talking.

“I remember reading about you in high school. You grew up in Munsen right? You were some sort of child prodigy. You won first place eighteen times in a row back in 2021. That meet against Arlington was legendary.”

Shit, you don’t even know that statistic yourself. You can’t help but wonder how much this guy has researched about you, and your stomach immediately twists into knots.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t even remember that meet,” You respond with the fakest smile known to man, before you try to turn away to go to the living room. “Um, it was nice to meet you—”

A rough hand wraps around your wrist.

“Whoa, what’s the rush, Y/N? We’re not done talking. We haven’t even talked about why you’re back here,” Tom’s eyes darken and fixate onto your face, and when you register his last sentence, you stumble over your words.

“I-I’m sorry, what? What did you just ask me? That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. Now’s not the time to be fucking coy,” He laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke in the world, and your knuckles whiten against the table. “Why would someone transfer to Briar after winning almost every meet at Berkeley for two years straight? After being trained by former Olympic athletes? That’s absurd. You’re hiding something.”

His words hit you like a slap to the face, and you’re left completely dumbfounded. Your mouth dries up as you try to snap back at him, but your mind goes blank, surrendering to Tom’s line of questioning.

Wow, Y/N. You can’t even defend yourself? What’s wrong with you?

“Just admit it. You’re not telling us something. What is it?”

Right before the tears could fall down your cheeks, a voice you unfortunately know all too well joins the conversation.

“Tom! What’s up? It’s been ages, man.”

A firm hand clasps onto Tom’s shoulder, practically jolting the man away from your body. You’re certain that your eyes are deceiving you. They must be.

Because not only is this person helping you out of an alarming situation, but he is also conveniently dressed as Anakin Skywalker. Of course he is.

“Hey, Logan. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Tom replies back in an incredibly dull voice, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm that it had thirty seconds ago. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“Well, you’re in my house, aren’t you?” John grins at the man as if it’s physically hurting him, his jaw visibly clenching. Your eyes widen when you notice the death grip that he has on Tom’s shoulder.

Finally, he turns his head and lays his eyes on you. Your legs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’re about to fall to the ground in any second.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t mind if I borrow this guy for a convo real quick, right?” John asks, voice eerily controlled.

“Actually, Y/N and I were in the middle of—”

“Not at all,” Your breath shakes as you interrupt Tom, trying your best to keep your own voice as level as your ex’s. “Please, go ahead. Take your time. Catch up.”

After dating Logan for four years, you knew all of his facial expressions. Even though the two of you haven’t seen each other in two years, you still know his tells. And unfortunately, you recognize the angry look at on his face. It’s the same one you saw a few weeks ago when rushing out of his house.

But, fortunately for Tom, John has the decency to be somewhat restrained, holding himself from unleashing his full wrath.

“Ah, you’re the best,” Your ex still has the most dangerous of smiles on his face, and he begins to drag Tom away by the shoulder, walking towards the living room. “Come on, man, I’ll get you a beer.”

You waste no time in running away.

The night air feels refreshing on your skin. Pop music continues to play in the background. You vaguely recognize the lyrics to “Teenage Dream” playing in the background, hearing all the partygoers sing along in unison.

You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting out here. You’re not sure if you even want to go back inside. As much as you want to dance with Kendall and down more shots with Beau, there’s no way you can continue to keep up a façade. You also snagged a vodka bottle from the kitchen before heading outside, and now, the bottle is almost entirely empty.

You shouldn’t have come to this party. If only Kendall’s puppy dog eyes weren’t so powerful.

Sighing, you fish another cigarette out of your pack. As you look down at the pack, you see that it’s almost done. It was full when you first came to the party.

Ever since you started to compete professionally, you’ve been met with intrusive questions, especially from men. You thought you grew used to them. But there was something so cruel about Tom’s presence that he quickly suffocated you, leaving you with no room to breathe.

And after that interaction, you’re not sure if you’re more shocked at Tom’s questions, or the fact that John, out of all the people in that house, came to bail you out. You wonder how much he overheard before stepping in.

You take a drag out of you cigarette, hazily staring at the moon above. You don’t hear the sound of a door closing behind you.

“When did you start smoking?”

Somehow, you don’t jump at the sudden presence of a voice. And surprisingly, you don’t jump when hearing his voice in particular.

The chuckle that falls from your lips is devoid of any humor. He pauses in his footsteps, giving you enough space.

“You want the fake answer or the real answer?”

Clearly, the alcohol has lowered your inhibitions. And as he stutters, you can tell that he didn’t expect that reply.

“Uh, I don’t know. Whichever one you’re most comfortable with, I guess.”

You clumsily stand up, cigarette still clad in your left hand as you wipe off some grass on your shorts with your right hand. You stare down at the ground, involuntarily letting out some giggles, as if this situation was fucking hilarious.

“Fake answer? Uh, I just started tonight,” You leisurely walk over to him, still refusing to look him in the eyes. “But the real answer? Ever since we broke up, actually.”

Logan carefully scans your face, brown eyes looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint.

His silence unnerves you. Looking at his Anakin costume only makes it worse.

“Why are you talking to me, Logan?” You whisper, and the name feels so unfamiliar in your mouth. You’ve always said John, never Logan. You look up to see the color drain from his face immediately.

When you think that you detect a hint of concern in his eyes, that’s when you know that the alcohol has taken over.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and you’re beginning to think that you will die of impatience if he won’t answer you soon. But before you could turn away, his voice holds you in place.

“Tom’s a dick. He shouldn’t have pestered you like that,” Logan mutters, looking down at his fists that he keeps clenching and unclenching. His breath hitches as he fixes his gaze back onto you. “I kicked him out afterwards.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief, because why would he do that? Why would your ex-boyfriend, the guy who openly berated in front of his friends just weeks ago in house, help you out?

“Okay,” You mumble, not knowing what else to say to him as you throw your cigarette to the ground. “Cool, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”

Your focus breaks when someone opens the front door and urgently calls your name.

“Y/N! Nour’s been throwing up and wants to leave. We’re gonna Uber back to my place,” Kendall tells you from the porch. Her suddenly eyes lock onto Logan’s body, confused as to why he’s standing so close to you. “Is everything good here? What’s going on?”

“All good,” You blurt out, using every muscle in your body to move your wobbly legs towards Kendall. Judging by the shocked look on Kendall’s face, you figure that Logan is watching your every move. But he remains silent as you go to the front door, and you see your other teammates hold Nour’s body steady.

“Uber’s a minute away,” Kendall mutters, and you help to safely get Nour’s body down the steps of the porch.

Garrett suddenly walks out as well, Hannah right by his side. He calls out to your group, telling all of you to get home safe. And as you get into the Uber, you briefly overhear remnants of his conversation with Logan. You’re pretty sure Garrett asks him something along the lines of “What did you say now?” but the car drives off before you could make out a response.

The rest of the night consists of watching over Nour, making sure she drinks enough water and that she sleeps on her side. Kendall graciously let all of you stay the night at hers. Though, she keeps on glancing over at you to check if you’re okay. She hasn’t asked about why you were talking with Logan out there, but you could tell she was curious. Luckily, as the solid friend she is, she doesn’t pry.

After she wishes you a good night, you try to fall asleep on her incredibly comfortable couch, but you can’t help but wonder what Logan was going to tell you.

“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”

Your mind explores all the possible options. Was he really angry? Really upset? Really sad? Those are the only combinations that make sense to your inebriated brain at the moment.

Whenever you close your eyes, you see him in his stupid Anakin robe, pulling Tom away from you.

You stay up the entire night.

And you realize that you haven’t slept at all until your phone buzzes with a text that completely wrecks you.

(6:14 AM) Jennifer/Dad’s Night Nurse: Y/N, I’m sorry for texting you so early in the morning. But you should come over as soon as possible. He got worse overnight.

You didn't smile though. Just bit your bruised lip before bending over to grab your purse from the ground. Ready to return to your real life.

He got out of bed, the practically ancient mattress creaking underneath him as he stood up next to you. Looking down at you, holding onto the way the sun hit your face through his small window, leaning in until he could smell his own soap on your skin.

"Look, um, after graduation, a few of us are going on a trip," He slowly said, loathing how strained it came out. "Gojo booked a whole place. You should come too. It'll be-"

"I can't," You interrupted, frowning hard. Lips pushed together in frustration, letting out a little exhale like you were upset over your own answer. "I'm sorry."

The way you said it, all soft and small like some wounded animal, made him sorry for even asking.

He stepped closer, and you went stiff. Shrinking back how you always did.

"My parents made plans for me," You added. He had never heard you sound so bitter before.

"It's cool," He lied. "I get it."

"No, not really," You mumbled, rubbing your nose like you were trying to stop yourself from sniffling. "They have my passport and-"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Suguru reassured, reaching out to rest a hand on your shoulder and squeezing softly. You didn't need to defend yourself - even though it did make an uncomfortable twist in his stomach stab at his judgment at the new information you didn't even have your own passport.

"I'd rather spend it with you," You practically whispered, glancing down at your feet before looking back at the door.

God, you knew just how to fucking gut him.

"And Gojo," You belatedly added, as if it would make it sound less intimate.

"Well, if, um, something changes, you can sleep in my room," He casually shrugged. Or, well, as casually as he could, considering it felt like his organs were all straining inside of his chest, being squeezed just by that infuriatingly pretty puppy dog pout of yours.

"Suguru." You said his name like it hurt. Like you were peeling off a fresh scab on some old wound while you poured salt on his.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to keep pretending to be my boyfriend," You awkwardly said, bringing your nails up to your mouth to bite the corners of them out of habit.

Wringing the last drop of blood from his heart, driving a dagger in his lungs too when he couldn't manage to get any air in them.

It had never been real. But he still felt hollow at the thought that you wouldn't be waiting for him in the halls, that you didn't want everyone to think you were his anymore.

"Done with me already?" It was hard to make his voice sound light, disguising the sharp edge of hurt as teasing.

"Don't say it like that," You frowned up at him, and he was already rubbing small circles into your shoulder, trying to reassure you that he wasn't mad at you.

Just fucking frustrated that he fucked this up with you so badly that he was being left behind. That he was about to watch you walk out of his door - and pretty soon out of his life.

"We're still friends though, aren't we?" He said, watching your brows knit together as you tried to understand what he was getting at. "Friends help each other out. I'll still come pick you up and take you to your classes. Work too, if you want."

"You don't have-"

"I want to," Suguru insisted.

It was obvious you didn't know what to say. How to accept help.

"You know, you've done more for me than anyone else ever has," You mumbled, forcing out a shaky inhale before holding your breath.

Suguru couldn't believe he ever thought you were spoiled. Couldn't reconcile the stuck-up image he used to have of you to the open vulnerability of your shattered pride in front of him.

"You never had to be so nice to me," You said, like the bare minimum was more than you deserved. "So, um, thank you, Suguru."

And once again, he didn't know what the hell to say to you.

"Do, uh, do you need a ride home now?" He asked instead.

"Yeah, I've got a class in a couple hours, so-"

"I'll take you."

A week without a car wasn't as horrible as you thought.

Suguru was constantly there, texting you when he wasn't to check if you needed anything. You weren't sure if he felt bad for you, or if this was really just what a real friend would do.

It hurt if you thought too hard about him.

If you let yourself fantasize about him having feelings for you that weren't just platonic.

You shut those ideas down though.

Told yourself that this was all just fine.

Suguru driving you to school and work. Sukuna taking you back home at the end of the night - although he grumbled and gritted his teeth when he noticed Suguru was the one giving you the ride there.

Always standing by the door, arms folded across his chest to wait for you, mumbling that he would've rescheduled his appointments to give you a ride. He didn't push it though.

Neither of them did.

Both tried to ask a couple times about your parents, but you dodged their questions. Narrowly managed to cancel your mom's appointment for you with her esthetician too, claiming a cold and coughing over the phone - although you were sure she'd probably call you out over it at brunch.

Threaten to take you there herself even if she'd probably go on to paint it to all her polished friends as a mother-daughter day.

But the only thing you were good at was pushing your problems off for the future you to handle.

"Um, I don't think I'll need another ride after this," you murmured as Suguru's car parked in the corner of the parking lot Friday afternoon.

His dark eyes leveled you, left you squirming in the passenger seat as you struggled to breathe around him.

It was almost fucking impossible to meet his stare after you had sex with him.

Difficult just to be around him when you couldn't help but think of what it had been like when he was buried inside of you. How nice it had been for him to kiss you. To be held like that.

Suguru was still acting normal though. Completely natural, like it wasn't even on his mind at all.

"Are you sure?" He asked, his stare narrowed as his hand rested on the gear shift. You unbuckled your seat belt, looking in the side mirror to see Sukuna watching from the thick-paned window.

"Yeah, um, I should be getting my car back Sunday," you said, even though you weren't really sure they'd actually follow through. The only text you'd gotten from either of your parents this week was saying they'd send someone to pick you up before brunch.

"Okay," Suguru muttered, forcing a tight smile.

"So, I, uh, guess I'll see you around," You nodded, holding your purse tight against your chest as you pushed your car door open.

"Call me if you need anything."

You knew Suguru meant it.

That was probably why you waited until you were inside to send the last payment through your phone to him. He had never asked for it. Even said he didn't want any more of your money.

But you didn't know how to handle him if it wasn't a transaction. Didn't know what to do with his kindness when you didn't feel like you deserved it.

You sent him extra, as much as you could without making anyone tracking your transactions suspicious - adding one last note to him.

For everything.

It was easier with Sukuna. In some ways.

He was rough around the edges, blunt enough you knew where you stood. Well, mostly.

You weren't dating. Weren't in a relationship.

But he liked you enough that he wanted to be with you. You guessed it was better he didn't seem that serious about it, that his interest seemed to be on your body judging by how often his fingers found your body. Settling on your side or ruffling your hair, tugging you against him if someone else stared too long at you.

You had been shoving it down, pushing it away, but graduation was getting closer - and so was the end of all of this.

By the time he'd be getting tired of you, you would be preparing for wedding planning to some other stranger.

You guessed that was what the brunch was about. Your parents only ever wanted to see you when they wanted to use you.

There wasn't much left on your list of things to do before you were shackled to a stranger.

"You free tomorrow?" Sukuna grunted after the last customer left, his sharp eyes focused solely on you from where he was counting up the cash behind the counter.

You paused cleaning the windows, heart thumping hard in your chest as you shrugged.

"Yeah, if you don't need me here," You nodded slowly.

"Be ready at six. Wear something pretty."

He didn't have to tell you this time for you to know it was a date.

Sukuna was waiting against his car in your apartment parking lot for you. Leaning against the door, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose and one hand slung in his pockets, the early evening sun painting pretty shadows across his face.

You were almost skipping to get to him, and he was suddenly standing straight, squaring his shoulders and walking over to meet you halfway.

He picked you up, those huge hands of his firmly planted on your waist to lift you in the air and pull you flat against his chest in an almost crushing hug.

"Should I change or-" You started to ask, but he only squeezed you tighter, cutting off your voice in a surprised squeak.

"Stop thinkin' so much," He scolded you, carefully setting you on the ground just to grab your chin seconds later, tilting your head up to meet his stare. "You look good."

You really just liked to hear him say that.

Saved every compliment he ever paid you so you could replay them on a rainy day. Storm clouds were already starting to form - and you knew the bottom would fall out sooner or later.

Tomorrow could be doomsday. A funeral for the girl you'd become these last few months of freedom.

Tonight, though? That was still yours.

And you wanted to share it with Sukuna.

For a guy who looked like he was only made of jagged edges, harsh lines, a rough exterior that cut and scratched when you got close, his softness continued to stun you. Holding the door to the shotgun seat open for you, grumbling about a surprise that turned out to be a show at a local bar.

Live music and a loud crowd, buying you drinks and leaning in to murmur in your ear despite the noise. Dragging your barstool over until your thighs were touching. Taking photos of you in his phone when you weren't expecting it, slipping a hand down lower on your side to keep you firmly planted against his hips.

Kissing your throat when you weren't expecting it, his nose grazing against the tendon there, sucking softly even when you squirmed on the barstool, glancing around almost embarrassed.

Sukuna didn't care who was watching.

Mouth marking you as his, sharp canines sinking into your collarbone as you gasped his name.

"Kuna," You whined, swallowing the spit pooling in your mouth. He didn't pause, continuing to stain your skin with more rough kisses. A few other patrons were glancing your way, eyeing the way he was holding you, how your dress had started to push up on your thighs. "People are looking at us."

He snickered, pulling back to squint at you.

"Does it seriously bother you?"

You felt stupid for saying yes.

But you couldn't focus on him when you could still feel so many stares sticking to your skin.

He spared you the judgement though - just dragging you back out to his car before the band's set even ended. Pulling you in his lap in the driver's seat, reclining it back as you straddled his thighs, his fingers tethered deep in your hair.

Tearing at your clothes while he stuck his tongue down your throat, the radio playing low in the background. You shivered, and you weren't sure if it was from the chill of the ac running or his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

One of his hands groped at your chest, squeezing your breast right as you moaned into his mouth. You could feel his cock straining in his jeans, throbbing against you and only flustering your fuzzy brain even more.

He let out a low hiss when you squirmed, readjusting to pull down his zipper. His fingers in your hair tugged hard when you started to break the kiss and come up for air, and you let out a strangled noise of surprise that made him stop.

"You're not, like, a virgin, right?" He paused, thick brows scrunched together as he studied your face.

"No," You huffed, hoping he wouldn't realize that you had been a week ago.

"Good," he grumbled, and your stomach churned. You understood why. Knew it came from a place of concern instead of condemnation.

But it still felt bad.

Still clung to the corners of your mind when he slipped a finger inside you instead, distracted you even when he was driving it in deep.

You tried to make all the right sounds, the right expressions, leaning forward to keep kissing him while he slotted in another finger to scissor you open.

With Suguru, you just let go. Forgot about how fucking embarrassing he felt for someone to see you for a little while. But Sukuna was the sort of cool you couldn't help trying to keep up with.

Hanging onto the hope he hadn't realized yet you were really just a mess he didn't have time to clean up. Struggling to seem like someone you knew you weren't, cutting off bits of yourself and cramming yourself into a spot you wouldn't fit in otherwise.

"I want you so fuckin' bad," he groaned into your mouth, and there was some distant relief at knowing you were at least on the same page there.

Sukuna's finger slipped out, and he reached over to the center console to fish a condom out of it.

How many girls had he fucked in the front seat to start carrying them there?

You didn't let yourself believe you were special enough to be the first.

He grunted as he rolled the condom on, lips pursed together as he tried to do it fast. In a hurry before he unceremoniously shoved your underwear to the side, guiding himself back to your entrance.

God, everything was happening so fast and-

Fuck.

It burned.

More than Suguru's had, unable to stop yourself from squeezing down on him, every single muscle in your body going rigid at the feeling of him spearing you open.

Maybe it was the position, the lack of space his car offered, but you were stuffed. Convinced there couldn't possibly be any more of him just for him to force another inch in.

"You sure?" He groaned, his hips driving up as you let out a strained whimper.

Trying to nod when you couldn't fucking move with how full you were, burying your face in his neck so he wouldn't see how fast you were falling apart.

"Relax," He chided, clicking his tongue as he pushed your hair out of his face.

"C-can't," You stuttered, despising how desperate you sounded. His hips drove back up in short thrusts, each one driving you even crazier.

Clenching down tight as you tried to hold yourself together. He murmured something you couldn't make out, one of his hands moving down to rub circles on your clit like that would help.

You melted into him, moaning into his skin while he drove his hips up, his free hand helping guide your hips up-and-down. Sinking into your warmth, his deep groans etching themselves into your brain every time your thighs started to shake.

"Shit," he cursed, suddenly rubbing your sensitive bud faster, massaging this thumb over it.

"I think-" You whimpered, but he knew. Anticipated your own rubber band of restraint snapping before his did.

Making you cum hard and fast before he was suddenly pulling out to cum on his hand, your brain belatedly processing that the condom was now broken and only half-on. Your own pleasure slowly subsiding, your orgasm short-lived when reality was right there waiting for you.

Your head was spinning, body trembling as you tried to focus on the cum on his fist.

"Fuck," He groaned, rubbing his brow with his clean hand. "Sorry, should've stretched you out more."

"It's okay," You mumbled, your voice still coming out small, throat sore.

"I don't think any got in you," He muttered, but his Adam's apple bobbed anyway. "But I think Choso keeps planning b back at the shop."

"Oh, um, okay," You nodded along.

Discomfort still swirling in your chest when you had to crawl back over the center console, bumping your head on the ceiling of the car to get in your seat. Buckling up and ignoring the ache between your thighs when he put it in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot.

Trying to subtly stare at his side profile when he drove you back to work, keeping a hand on your leg, rubbing little patterns you guessed were meant to be soothing.

"You know, if you were a virgin, that would be fine too," He eventually awkwardly added, glancing over at you when he stopped at a light.

"I know," You said, lips twitching up in a practiced smile.

What would he have done if you were? Gone slower? Insisted on waiting again?

You didn't say anything the rest of the way there. But you got out of the car after him once he was parked, folding your arms across your chest as you followed him back to the front door. There was only one other car in the lot, one with a vanity plate that just said YUKI.

The light was on inside - but when he tugged on the door, it was locked.

He rummaged through his keys for the correct one, letting you lean against him for support. Chewing on the inside of your cheek while you touched the sensitive spot just above your collarbone he'd been sucking on earlier.

Counting how many hickeys you guessed he'd left - all of which you would have to cover with concealer tomorrow.

"Should I come in with you or-"

He was already halfway through the entrance though, letting out an exasperated groan as his keys jingled in his hands. "I swear to god if you guys are fucking in here."

They weren't.

But when you trailed behind him to Choso's work station, Yuki's top was off.

Laying on Choso's chair, reclining back casually as she waved at you. Her tits were pretty, perky, now freshly decorated with two silver barbells going through her nipples.

"Hi, guys," She grinned. "Have fun on your date?"

Choso was unbothered, cleaning off his machines, barely sparing a glance up at either of you.

"Where's the plan b?" Sukuna grunted, and his employee just jutted his thumb over to the cabinet.

"I'll take that as a yes," She laughed, sitting up straight as her breasts bounced.

You were staring. You didn't mean to, but you really couldn't stop yourself.

Yuki noticed, giggling at how openly you were gawking.

"You should get yours done."

Sukuna dragged you away before you could respond, passing you a plain box. Taking you back to his own station and patting the chair for you to sit, swinging your legs off the side as you tore it open to take the tiny pill inside.

He spread your thighs, and you almost choked on it.

"Just making sure there isn't any of the condom left in there," he grunted, and you clamped your lips shut again.

Leaned your head back on the chair as you swallowed it, humiliation simmering under your skin as his fingers shoved back and swirled around inside you.

"Do you like that?" You awkwardly asked Sukuna, blinking up at the ceiling and holding your breath.

"Piercings?" Sukuna frowned, brows scrunched together as he glanced up between your thighs to study your reaction.

"Yeah," You mumbled.

"I guess," He shrugged. "But if you're asking if I think you should get some, that's up to you."

You wanted to ask if he'd like it if you did. If he would like you more.

Your chest still felt warm, the alcohol still clouding your system probably to blame for the next question that fell from your lips.

"Would you do it for me?"

"Wake up."

You knew it was Sukuna the second you cracked your eyes open, felt the calloused hand nudging you as your alarm blared in the background.

Recognized your own bedroom as you rubbed your eyes and sat up, your head swimming and your whole body aching as you reached over to shut your phone off.

The sun was barely rising outside, half the sky still shades of orange and pink as you swiped your alarm away.

"The fuck you have that thing set so early for?" He grumbled, trying to drag you back under your blankets next to him while your brain scrambled to piece together last night's memories.

The bar. His car. The tattoo shop.

Your-

You looked down, sucking in a sharp breath as you remembered the reason for the dull throb in your chest. You let him pierce your nipples.

"Shit."

Your parents might murder you.

Sukuna said your name, but you were begrudgingly rolling out of bed on unsteady legs, padding barefoot over to your mirror to take a peek at your appearance.

Exhausted circles under your eyes, swollen lips, dark hickeys staining your skin. And poking through your shirt was a brand new set of matching silver barbells.

"Come back to bed," Sukuna muttered, still half-asleep.

"I, um, can't," You said for the second time this week. It sucked just as much. Left that terrible taste in your mouth as stared at your reflection.

It didn't feel like you.

"Don't make me get up and drag you back here," He yawned, his own voice thick with exhaustion.

"I'm s'pposed to go to brunch with my family," You murmured, and something invisible compressed down on your heart.

It was a few hours away, sure, but you wouldn't put it past either of them to send someone to get you absurdly early - and you had to be cleaned up enough that you wouldn't get crucified in front of all their friends for being a complete fuck-up. You couldn't take out the piercings, but maybe you could find some way to cover them up, wear something loose enough they wouldn't be able to notice them through your clothes.

Sukuna sat up, brows scrunched together in annoyance as he started to wake up.

"Brunch?" He scoffed, rolling his eyes as if the idea of it was absurd. "Who the fuck has brunch?"

"My family," You mumbled.

"Cancel on them," He huffed back at you, and you couldn't meet the expectation in his stare.

"I really can't," You insisted, and you knew you needed to come clean. To let him know now instead of later that you weren't really someone he could change.

"It didn't even sound like your mom liked you," Sukuna scowled, painfully accurate in his astute observation. "Why would they want you there?"

"I'm, um, kind of engaged."

You had seen this before.

Plenty of sappy, romantic movies ending with the man and woman tying the knot at the church. If not for the climatic music, melodious chirping of birds or the lustrous sun peeking amidst the clouds just to shine on them—as if nature itself had twisted it's course for the couple to feast on their union. Bouts of joy would trail down their eyes as they promised devotion to one another and share a chaste kiss whilst memories of all their beautiful and tragic moments—in which they held onto each other—would dance before their eyes. 

Zayne and you shared anything but that.

Therefore, when he said I do you didn't mind the lack of cadence to his tone. 

You didn't mind the chill pricking your skin when he held your hand. You didn't mind the scarcity of desire or warmth in the kiss that he pressed on your lips. 

You didn't mind that this marriage was only a farce; a union made in order to appease the public rather than join two hearts into one. 

After all, when you agreed to marry Zayne, you knew—wishing for love would only end in shambles.

Several Hours Earlier

Zayne's shoes scraped on the pavement, echoing the soft, rhythmic beat of his steps amidst the stale morning air. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the giant oak trees, gleaming in his eyes once in a while. Although December had sauntered in with its chilling wisps of wind, snow hadn't begun pouring in Linkon city and for a winter morn’, he'd consider today to be pretty warm.

Maybe some of the last days of mellow ambling over Linkon city before the thick blanket of white covered it all. 

It was on these days that families planned all their picnics and get-togethers of this year. Days on which departmental stores stayed open an extra hour because Christmas would follow in three weeks.

Something about winters always bothered Zayne. He couldn't pinpoint it but maybe it was the contradiction of it all. He never understood how the bleak and empty season could ever stir a mood of festivity in anyone. 

The central park was a common spot for Zayne. He'd find himself strolling the grounds every time he’d need an escape. The pond glittered with the golden light falling over it, gusts of wind swirling the leaves and the pink camellia blooming on the shrubs just made the scenery all the more beautiful.

Zayne didn't want to find it beautiful.

Because beautiful meant he was alive and if he were alive then it meant he had memories, and in those memories lived a woman. A woman whose beauty transcended heavens; a woman, for whom he’d sacrifice forever just for a chance to hold her once. And if he thinks about holding her then he’d remember he can't hold her.

He can't hold her.

He does not have her.

He does not have his life.

Then how could he be alive?

Because beauty was in her eyes when she held his gaze, beauty was in her voice when she called his name, beauty was in her mien when he watched her bath under the moonlight and he had silently thanked fate for sending this woman to him. 

She was beautiful but she wasn’t here anymore. And when she left, she took all the colours, all the birds and all the sunlight—leaving this desolate world to plunge into a grayscale crest. 

That's why he can't find it beautiful. He can't find anything beautiful. 

It was suffocating. 

Two hours had passed since the wedding and now, you are sitting in your bridal suite with a woman touching on your make-up. You had changed into a particularly lighter gown—meant for your reception and you'd had taken a second to admire the dress, if not for the turmoil brewing in your mind.

Honestly, it was easier at first. 

The only reason you said yes to this marriage was because you wanted to escape from your family. You wouldn't essentially speak bad about them; after all, they never swayed from paying for your education and lifestyle—something you'd eternally be grateful for. But it was the unnamed things that stirred the tension in you.

It was your wedding today; a day you are supposed to cherish for the rest of your lives but you had just spent the last two hours sitting ideally in your bridal suite as the walls taunted you for your doomed marriage. 

Zayne had said that he needed to answer an urgent call and that he'd return soon. But as you saw, the soon transcended seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. So much so that your makeup artist had arrived but not him.

But you weren't complaining. You stepped into this arrangement with your own will and you could understand why Zayne would behave the way he did. Any man would. 

You were a taint on your family's name. Tarnished and ruined beyond repair; if only you weren’t so stupid, none of this would have happened. In spite of your family drowning the scandals, some rumours never truly die and this was one of them. 

Therefore, it was more than enough that someone had agreed to marry you. And you shouldn’t be greedy when the tides are against you.

“My, my, you look so beautiful!” 

As if plunged out of a dream, you look up to see your makeup artist grinning down at you. God, you had forgotten she was still in the room. Deflecting your gaze towards the mirror, you beheld your expression. 

“Wow,” you gasp, completely fazed out with the work she had done on your features. Nothing heavy, and it'd be a lie if you say you say you weren't impressed by her craft. “I look… good.”

“You look beautiful,” she exclaimed, “I bet your husband wouldn't be able to take his eyes off you.”

Only if he looked at me…

You decided to keep the unwarranted thought to yourself and plaster a half smile on your lips to show your content. “Thank you. You are very skilled.”

The corner of her lips curl up, eyes narrowing into half moon, “All the credits belong to my model.”

Before you could reply, you heard the click of the lock to the suite and soon enough, a man emerged inside—decked in a crisp navy blue suit with white floral patterns stitched on the fabric—her husband. Looking every ounce of handsome and unbothered yet when his eyes fell on you, you averted your gaze as soon as possible.

Because what were you supposed to say to a man you had married only hours ago? 

Thankfully, your makeup artist didn't wait around to bombard your husband with her questions; seems to have been picked up on the uncharacteristic dynamic shared amid the couple. Whatever the reason may be, she passed a soft smile to you before bidding her farewell.

You heard some rustling; probably Zayne going though his belongings. From the corner of your eyes, you caught him fixing his cufflinks, his back turned to you. You hadn't noticed but the suit he donned currently was starkly different to the charcoal suit he had worn to the wedding. 

When did he change?

Although curious, you refrained from asking any idiotic question and worsen the awkward heat swirling in the room. Lifting your phone from the dresser, you swiped it back to life—not upset by the lack of messages to pop up on your screen. You had one unread text message from your mother—timed to have been sent just after the ceremony. 

Why do you have to be so…  You didn't need to read the entirety of the message to know its contents. Besides, there was enough evidence of plight as the seconds ticked by, you didn't need her to remind you of everything. 

“Did you order room service?”

Caught off guard, you whirled your neck to see your husband staring back at you. “Huh?”

“Did you order room service?” He repeated.

“I, uh–” Stretching your gaze across the vast expanse of the room, you tried to pinpoint what caused him to ask that, “no…?”

Great way to make an impression.

You shut down the devil in your head, masking the quiver in your voice with a cough, “I didn't…”

“You should have,” he said, picking his watch from the nightstand and wrapping the silver belt on his wrist, “It's been long since the ceremony ended.”

“Yeah but I just… I thought– the reception…” 

“I understand.” 

With that, your first conversation ended with your husband.

What was wrong with you? You were acting like a nubile school girl dousing in dopamine whilst she talked to her crush. However, unlike the dopamine or butterflies in reference, what settled in the pit of your stomach was a gnawing nausea on the verge of climbing up your throat. You resisted the urge by downing a tumbler full of lukewarm water.

“Oh, before I forget,” Zayne spoke, walking up ahead, “your mother said she will come to meet you.”

“Why?” The squeak in your voice wasn't expected but Zayne didn't seem to catch on it. Clearing your throat, “I mean… why? Why would she want to meet me?”

“If you don't want to then it can be arranged as well,” He replied with the same diplomacy.

It's not everyday that you are being asked for your wishes but you ignored all the Sparks that alighted your mind. He is just being decent.

“I don't mind,” you said, twisting a strand of your hair, “as your wife, I'd meet anyone you want.”

“No, you wouldn't,” He snapped and you immediately bowed your head like a child on being caught for their miscreants, “And you are not my wife. If you have forgotten, then let me remind you that this marriage means nothing to us.”

Were you stupid? 

Can't you just get one thing straight into your thick skull?

They had told you Zayne was cold and aloof most of the time but with the knives he threw at you, you pondered on the possibility that whether he was a capricious man.

No. What were you thinking?

Zayne's stance wasn't venomous. No, he was entirely right in his place, only you had to go on and utter such rubbish. Still… why did his words send beads of anguish through you? Pain bubbled up to your eyes, throat clogging with hundreds of apologies—none spoken aloud and if you heart were a living which you could clasp in your fist, you could feel the blood leaking out the crevices of your fingers.

You had dug your own grave by your own stupidity, the least you could do was sit and writhe on it like you were meant to. Expecting love from Zayne would be equal to a dream come true; unfortunately, you had been shrouded by nightmares your entire life.

“I don't like to repeat myself,” he continues, turning his back to you—oblivious to the throes his utterance did to you, “But please, refrain from associating such titles with yourself.”

Zayne didn't know when it became a ritual but sooner than he could comprehend, he found himself retracing the steps he took with her five years ago.

He had always enjoyed his own company and with her gone—he didn't find any meaning in filling the gap with anyone else. He doubted anyone else ever could. 

“Here you go, sir,” the old lady in the flower shop said as he handed him a bouquet of fresh purple hyacinths. “Lovely choice of flowers sir, I assume they are for your wife.”

“My… Love,” because what else could he possibly call the woman to whom he had lost his heart ages ago; and now, lost her altogether. “I need to apologize to her.”

The lady tilts her head, clasping her hand back with a soft beam gracing her lips. She mutters something about young love which he couldn't hear before adding, “Well, I hope she forgives you and next time, I hope you get her red roses” she hums, “a young man like you must know what they mean.”

He did.

But he didn't think he'd ever have to buy roses. She never had any interest in them in the first place. However, he kept the words to himself.

When Zayne retraced The steps to the Graveyard, he was glad. This was that one place where he didn't have to pretend; didn't have to explain the tightness in his chest or The reason his hands trembled as the leaves crunched beneath his boots. 

Grief was a funny thing. 

At one moment, he’d be perfect—fine even. The next second, his breath would escape in short bursts of white, his shoulders would tremble with the weight of the world and again, he'd find himself wandering in this soulless world. Grief didn't arrive dressed in black, never with wailing in the corners—it came quietly; sitting beside him, as he'd meet his patients in the chamber, or when he'd hear someone laugh and remember there was one he hadn't heard since long.

And even now, five years later—grief would twist him in its chains, take him hostage to the home he once had shared with her and upon asked, why can't he leave that home, he couldn't give an exact answer. Therefore, he laid on the bed, looking for the fragrance she had left behind, looking for the visage which haunted him everywhere.

Zayne lowered himself in front of the headstone; vines had grown deep, clambering to the apex with the dirty green leaving it's marks on her name inscribed on it.

He placed the bouquet of purple hyacinths near the base, clasping his hands to utter a solemn prayer. 

Purple hyacinths. A florist would say they were a symbol of sorrow and deep regret. A flora advised to gift someone when one would like to request forgiveness. 

But when Zayne offered those flowers to the only woman he loved, his intent wasn't to ask for forgiveness.

“I hope you never forgive me for marrying her.”

You didn't mean to snoop around. Honestly, you didn't.

But what were you supposed to do in this huge family home with no one else to keep you company.

4th April

I dreamt about you today. You were standing in the meadows, you had your favourite lilies in your hand and you were smiling. God's, you were smiling and I didn't just how much I missed it. Yet, you asked me to bring you roses. I don't understand; you never liked roses. Do you like them now? I suppose, this is your way of telling me to bring you roses the next time I visit. But you hadn't mentioned the colour, I guess I'll just have to bring you each of one colour now.

Five years since you have left me and I can't fathom how am I still alive? Days bleed into nights, the seasons change and yet, I try to find bits and pieces of you in every face. And every time, I drown in disappointment because a semblance of you resides in neither. I carry your voice in my heart like a melody, playing the soft lilt that I have grown to love. 

Would you like to know a secret, my love? If I could trade my life for yours, I would.

Good morning

You'd smiled into your scarf while on the bus then, relieved his silence hadn't been particularly voluntary. Maybe he was just shy. 

After that, it was a little ritual between the two of you before the day began, messaging each other. You'd even started snapping a picture of the morning chai (coffee gave you stomachaches, you'd mentioned to him later) you bought on your commute to the salon. And it worked as you'd hoped.

Robby, rather than only responding with his simple good morning, had begun attaching a picture of his own mug, still steaming in the crisp morning air of his kitchen, the skyline of the city just barely visible in the blurred background. 

You always hearted the images, and Robby had to Google how to do the same with yours. 

One of the first things about the arrangement to be grounded were the bi-weekly money deposits. All through Apple Cash, once Robby did embarrassingly long research on the safety and anonymity of the feature. Per the agreement, your "allowance" (God, he really needed to think of a better word to use), so to speak, was $500. A few hundred dollars to cover groceries, or whatever you wanted to use it on. Anything you needed taken care of, Robby had it covered.

At least, that's what he insisted. So far, you'd yet to give him specifics, and repeatedly assured him half a thousand dollars went a long way for you.

You two hadn't seen each other since the restaurant nearly four weeks ago. Mostly, you stuck to morning texts, only due to Robby's hectic hours at the Pitt, though you'd also started an evening ritual where you called after his shifts, taking lead in the conversation while he laid back on his couch and dozed off (something he blamed on exhaustion after a twelve hour shift in the ER and not the lovely timbre of your voice that never failed to lull him into a calm). 

Those were the long day calls. The ones where he just needed to shut down his brain for a while, step down and let someone else take charge. He was a bit embarrassed at how little it took for him to become comfortable over the phone with you, especially the first time he'd fallen asleep when you were talking. The next morning, after he'd rushed for an apology, you assured him it was more than fine, and you were glad he was getting some well-deserved rest. 

…The calls become a bit longer after that.

Robby opens his apartment door with jangling keys and a heavy sigh, swinging it closed while he trudges towards the couch. He throws himself down, face buried into the leather arm, stethoscope still around his neck. Reaching to turn on the end table lamp seemed too demanding of a task at the moment, so he lies in the dark.

Just one of those shifts.

No casualties, no patients Robby would regret not taking better care of, not trying harder for, even if there was nothing left for him to do, but just a…frustrating day. A bunch of Dr. Google's trying to override his treatment with their own ideas, uncooperative patients making diagnoses difficult, and some of Myrna (she'd taken to calling him fudge-packer today, which was….yeah) was enough for Robby to be left entirely drained of energy. 

He wanted nothing else but to take a long fucking shower and go straight to bed. And listen to you talk for a while. You didn't tell him big things, your life was a bit quiet for that, but just small details of your day. Things like:

"I've been trying to finish this book on the bus for days now, but it gets so bumpy I can't focus at all."

"I gave coffee another chance this morning but I had a stomachache my entire three o'clock appointment." 

"I'm making dinner. My mom sent me this stuffed mushrooms recipe I've been dying to try. What about you, have you eaten yet?" (It was 8PM and he had not.)

The normalcy of your life brought a slice of it into the chaos that was his. It was a lighthouse in a raging storm, shining bright and keeping him afloat. He looked forward to these calls because he knew even when he swayed at the edge, feet just tilting over, you'd always be there, steady-handed to pull him back.

Except it's quarter past eight and you still haven't called. 

Your hours aren't hectic like his. They're firm and you're in charge of them, given that you own the salon you work at. Usually got out by seven o'clock and called him by seven thirty after your commute on the bus, or an Uber, if you were feeling lazy (your words). Of course, he'd texted you (in the privacy of a restroom stall, free of prying eyes and loose mouths) before clocking out that he'd be late today. But after opening his text conversation with you, he sees the message hasn't even been read yet. 

Unlike you, she probably has a life outside of work, Robby, a snide voice in his head tells him. But even through his disappointment of what's most likely a fact, something keeps nagging at him. However, that insecurity that's always lurking and tends to come when the topic concerns you makes him second guess calling you.

Way to look desperate. 

"Am not," he scoffs. He scratches his beard restlessly and shakes his head.  Just…worried?

Shower, microwave dinner, then maybe, possibly call you. Okay. Plan set. 

Fifteen minutes later, Robby's in his kitchen, out of his scrubs and in flannel pants, drying his hair in front of the microwave and looking down at his phone while his thumb hovers over your contact. 

What if she's out right now, having a good time with her friends, and you called for no goddamn reason except for being mopey that she hasn't paid attention to you? What then? 

Robby has no time to wonder because his thumb's slipped and now there's ringing as his phone waits to connect with yours on a call. 

"Fuck!"

Riiing…Riiing…Riiing…

He could still hang up, right? He'd just blame it on butt dial if you asked and-

"Hello?" It's mumbled, heavy with what sounds like sleep, and it's you.

"Hey. Uh, sorry. Did I wake you up?" There's some rustling on the other end. 

"Oh. Mm, yeah." Then, you gasp. Glanced down at your phone and saw the time, probably. "Oh no," you rush, and even though subtle details in calls are usually drowned by static and other noises, Robby can still hear a thickness in your voice. Have you been crying? "I fell asleep as soon as I got home, I didn't even see what time it was-"

"Don't worry about it," he tells you. "You OK?"

"No no, yeah, 'm OK!" You squeak. High pitched and cracking. He thinks a little more prodding and you'll spill. "I'm sorry, Michael. Have you, um, been waiting long?"

"I just got home a bit ago," he assures you. "You didn't read my message, so I, uh, I got a little worried."

"I'm sorry," you say again, a little quieter and slurred with that little drowsiness. He can almost see the picture that's on the other side of the line. You, sleep-tousled, biting your lip with furrowed brows. It's oddly domestic and it makes his chest tight. "I was just tired, I guess. Long day."

"You…wanna talk about it?" The question you usually ask him feels unfamiliar on his own tongue, but it sits well. Doesn't make him squirm. 

"A client today, she, she hated her nails," you say, and you're slipping, sounding like you're going to cry again. "She wasn't even nice about it, either. I tried to fix whatever she didn't like, but she just kept going on about how her usual tech did them, and I'd done it nothing alike."

"Why didn't she just go to her usual place then?" The scenario reminds Robby of similar he's had at the Pitt. 

'This is not how I'm attended at Urgent Care!' 

"That's what I was thinking!" You groan, sniffling. "Anyway, she wouldn't tell me what was wrong with them, so it's not like I could've fixed the issue. So I just refunded the entire service and she walked out." A shaky sigh. "I spent like, four hours on them, so I lost a lot of my day just for that. People are such…" 

"Assholes?" He offers.

"I was going to say bullies, but, yeah," you say with a small, watery laugh. Then groan again. "My hair hurts."

"Maybe you just need a day off," he says. "To just…rest, or, y'know, do whatever helps you feel better." Now he was starting to realize why Dana kept throwing that saying at him.

Physician, heal thyself.

"I like shopping," you tell him, voice raw and a little shy. Your vulnerability is what gives Robby a push of confidence. His need to take a turn at comforting, to protect, overwhelmed the constant shame he felt when he became sentient about his unconventional relationship with you. 

"Yeah?" he says in a tone that borders on teasing. Not enough to upset you, he hopes, just some ribbing. "That why you haven't asked me for anything since we've met?"

" 'S not the same," you mumble, but the growing smile he can practically hear in your voice is undeniable. "I don't wanna make it seem like, y'know…"

"Like what? Like you're taking advantage of an old man like me?" he prods, a grin of his own decorating his lips. "Bleeding him dry of his money before he drops into a casket?"

"Michael," you whine, but you smile wider when he laughs. A genuine, boisterous laugh that's so unlike his usual quiet chuckles. He's showing himself to you and something about the sound brings a light feeling to your chest. Even makes your night a little less bleak. "I just don't want to outright demand things from you, OK? I feel bad."

"Don't," he replies earnestly. He hopes it doesn't come off as weird. "I…actually think I'd like it if you did. Would make me feel less like a pervert trying to gift you things, and more like, y'know..." Now it's Robby's turn to be bashful.

"My sugar daddy?" You offer, and he can hear the shift in your tone going from shy to a little teasing yourself. He shudders a little. He didn't mind small humiliations if that's what they sounded coming from you.

"Not that those two men are mutually exclusive from the other, but yes," he says with a small grin. His voice softens when he asks you, "When's the last time someone took care of you, sweetheart?" 

Your mind is too wrapped up in considering his question to allow yourself to properly process the nickname. On the other line, the older man wants to punch himself in the face.

What the fuck, Robby?

"Do you want to?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth immediately after. Fuck, was that too forward? 

"I mean," Robby clears his throat. "I did sign up to a website to do just that."

Your lip quirks. "I guess."

An hour later, after you promised to call back once Robby had eaten dinner (which you made him swear he'd do) and you'd gotten ready for bed, you're both back on call in your respective bedrooms. 

"I don't know, today just wasn't very good," you whisper, grunting softly as you settle under the covers, Sonny already curled at your feet. Even in the worst days, there was something soothing in them when you knew one thing was promised: some way or or the other, you'd end the day in the comfort of your bed. "Have you ever had a bad day like this?"

Yeah, and they collectively led me to this moment, right here with you, he wants to say. But, instead, he clears his throat. "Yeah."

So, he tells you about his day for a change. Much more than he usually does, anyway. He talks about the aggravating patients, frustrations (arguments) he shared with Gloria, and some of Myrna's colorful choice of wording for him when she came in today with another alleged seizure. Your breathing's slowed by the time he's short of his own, taking a moment to rest once he's run out of things to talk about. He's almost sure you're asleep, until there's a small crackle on the line and you're speaking again.

"I lied," you mumble. "Back at the restaurant, when you asked why I signed up for the website. I told you it was because I needed money for my job. I mean, I do, but…"

"Yeah?" It's murmured, layered under the background noise of the movie playing on TV. 

"I was lonely," you confess, and you're not ready for a heavy weight to be lifted off your chest as soon as you say those three little words. It feels…good to finally say it out loud. "I know the whole point of moving across the country is to start over, but I just, I don't know." You sigh. "I didn't think it'd feel this alienating. I just miss my family, my friends." You smile a little with misty eyes, laughing quietly. "The ocean."

Robby swallows. Wants to say he felt the same, that he was also lonely and that's why he made the choice to go to that restaurant, to meet you and have that hopefully change. But he thinks you might know that already. 

Just like his age, he's sure his misery is obvious to others.

"You ever think about moving back? To California?"

"Mm, I did, the first few months living here," you murmur. "But… the first time I visited my family after moving, I don't know. I guess I just realized I didn't want to stay there. Which was funny, because I didn't want to stay in Pittsburgh, either. Now, I'm just..."

"Trying to find your place in the world?"

You let out a breath that's almost a laugh. "Something like that."

The next morning, while you're spoiling yourself to a late lie-in and drinking tea in bed with a stretching dachshund, you receive two chirping notifications on your phone. 

Michael 

Sent $2,000 with Apple Pay

Michael

I hope today is better to you than yesterday was. Treat yourself.

You smile, a small warmth gathering on the apples of your cheeks. You reply with a heart and a sweet thank you. 

Robby immediately hearts the message. 

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

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a/n: Does the constant POV switch make sense?? I want to keep a balanced-ish perspective of both reader and Robby but can't tell how it's coming off to you all 👩🏻‍💻 I'm not particularly proud of this chapter, just feels a little rushed, but it might be because I've been working on it for the past week and it's totally different from its original outline. Hope you still enjoy it!

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