Losing me
Rafe Cameron
Tags: Angst moments • Rafe being a dick • anxious reader • season 2 Rafe •
I’d just finished dinner when I slipped into one of Tanneyhill’s spare living rooms. The air smelled faintly of old wood and rose-stitched linen, like the whole house had been wrapped in someone else’s memory. I paused by the sofa, its pale fabric patterned with delicate roses, and dragged my fingertips over one of the stitched petals before settling onto its edge.
Across the room, Rafe stood at the window, outlined by the weak glow of the security lights outside. He’d spread a parchment across the low coffee table, a mess of smaller notes and scribbled coordinates scattered around it. His shoulders were rigid, every muscle drawn tight, his focus absolute. He kept tracing the same thin line on the map with the blunt end of a pen, over and over, like if he stopped, everything would disappear.
I shivered as the cold wood floor pressed against my bare feet and creaked under the shifting of my weight. My stomach knotted, heavy from dinner but hollow in a different way. I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the ache that had been sitting in my chest all week.
“The latitude’s off by two minutes. If I don’t correct it, we’ll miss the Cross of Santo Domingo entirely,” Rafe said, his voice taut with urgency, eyes still locked on the parchment.
My back stiffened. The words felt like a rebuke, like I’d interrupted something holy. Two minutes. He was counting minutes on a map and I couldn’t even get five from him at a table. Heat hummed low in my chest.
“You’ve been at that map for weeks, Rafe. You missed dinner again. You missed us,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I intended, but there was an edge I couldn’t sand down. I pulled my legs up onto the sofa, the old springs sighing under my weight, and swung myself around so I could face him.
He didn’t look up. His jaw worked, a tight tic just beneath his cheekbone. “I can’t stop,” he replied flatly. “Not when we’re this close. These coordinates only make sense if you align them with the cross shape.” He tapped one corner of the parchment, more to himself than to me.
Anger flared in my chest, hot and quick. My hands curled into fists against my thighs, nails biting into my palms. I was so tired of talking to the top of his head, of his attention always living somewhere in ink and numbers instead of here with me.
“So you shut me out?” I asked, the words tasting bitter. “You bury yourself in Wicks’s journal, scribble symbols no one else can read, and expect me to stand by silently?” I scoffed, unable to stop myself, watching the muscle in his jaw tense like I had jabbed a bruise.
He spun toward me so fast the papers on the table shifted. His eyes were burning, too bright, like he hadn’t slept enough for too many nights. “I need to figure this out before the Pogues catch wind. You think this is a game?” His voice climbed, sharp and raw. “This maps our last shot.” His palm slammed onto the coffee table, rattling an empty mug and sending a folded note skidding to the floor.
The sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot. My heart lurched. For a second I saw him in that cargo hold again, wild and frantic, and my chest tightened. I blinked fast, fighting the sting in my eyes.
“We’re already risking everything,” I said, my voice cracking as tears burned hot at the corners of my eyes. “You promised we’d be in this together, not you and some half-deciphered code.” The promise had felt solid when he’d said it, like something I could lean against. Now it felt like smoke.
Rafe dragged his hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough for me to notice. The manic edge in his eyes softened into something rawer, more fragile.
“This isn’t just code,” he said, the words spilling out like he had been holding them back all night. “It’s our legacy. You saw what happened last year, how close we got to the gold, how many times we almost lost it all. My dad did all of that. I’m not letting it slip through our fingers again. I’m not letting them win.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for a second he looked younger, almost lost.
My gaze drifted to the map on the table. A rough cross outline marked four hidden coves around the inlet, little inked Xs like fresh bruises on the parchment. Rafe’s handwriting bled into Wicks’s spidery scrawl, two obsessions stacked on top of each other. My heart ached at how he worshipped every line, every faded note in the margins.
I exhaled slowly, trying to steady the tremor in my chest. Part of me understood. Part of me hated that I understood.
“I’m trying to protect you,” I whispered, the truth catching on my tongue. “Protect us, from going down that same road of obsession.” I thought of Ward, of the way greed had eaten him from the inside out, of Rafe standing in his shadow like he couldn’t step out without losing his balance.
He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that scraped along my nerves. “Protect me? By lying? By pretending like this map isn’t the key?” His glare cut straight through me. The words stung, and I blinked hard, but the tears still climbed over my lashes.
“I missed you, Rafe,” I said softly, my voice trembling, the words clawing their way out from somewhere deep. “I miss us. Not this treasure hunt that swallows you whole.” My chest ached saying it. I hated how small I sounded compared to his obsession.
“Baby…” His voice faltered. The word sounded like it used to, soft and familiar, but the rest got stuck. He reached out a hand toward me, then froze halfway, his fingers curling in on themselves. His jaw tightened, and I could see the war behind his eyes, the part of him already pulling back to the map. “I can’t lose this. Not again.” His gaze flicked to the parchment, like it was a living thing watching us.
I pushed myself up until I stood over him. The room tilted slightly, my pulse thudding in my ears. My own tears finally spilled free, warm tracks down my cheeks. “Then don’t lose me, too.” The words left me before I could soften them. They hung there in the hush between us, and I saw the conflict flicker across his face, clear and sharp. Parchment or person. Cross or connection.
His shoulders sagged a fraction. He lowered his gaze, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t want you running away because you think the map, my obsession, means more than you do.” His fingers slipped from the edge of the journal, and it slid off his knee. He let it fall. It thudded against the wooden floor and stayed there, splayed open for a moment before closing on its own.
Something in my chest loosened, just a little.
“I… I need you. Every piece of you.” His hand lifted again, slower this time, more careful, like he was afraid I might disappear if he moved too fast. He brushed a thumb against my cheek, catching a tear, and I leaned into his touch without meaning to. I smiled through the blur of my tears, small and shaky but real.
“Then face it with me,” I said, my voice gentle but firm, my fingers curling around his wrist so he couldn’t pull away again. “No more secrets. No more late-night raids on your own sanity.” I thought of the nights I’d woken up alone, hearing floorboards creak and pages turning somewhere down the hall.
Rafe knelt to pick up the journal. For a second he held it in both hands, thumbs resting along the spine like habit, like muscle memory. Then he closed it carefully, the pages pressing together with a soft whisper, and set it aside on the table. When he rose, he stepped in close and wrapped both arms around me.
His chest felt as tight as mine, every breath shallow and uneven against my ear. I could feel his heartbeat, fast and unsteady, like he was still running from something only he could see.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into my hair. “For shutting you out. For letting the cross consume me.” His voice shook on the last word.
I pressed my forehead against his heart, grounding myself in the steady pound beneath my skin. The scent of him, salt and cologne and old paper, crowded out the dusty smell of the room.
“We’ll find the treasure together, map and all,” I said quietly. The idea still scared me, but it felt less like a monster with both of us facing it. “But promise me you’ll trust me first.” My fingers clenched in the back of his shirt, needing him to feel how much I meant it.
He lifted my chin with gentle fingers, his eyes warm in the lamplight, the hard edge finally softening. “I promise. No more running.” His gaze flicked once to the closed journal, then back to me, and for the first time in a long time, I believed him.
