Sins Between Us
Rafe Cameron x Female!Pogue!OC
SUMMARY she was just living her life. paycheck to paycheck. she never really cared what anyone thought of her. but when her new job pushes her towards a certain cameron boy, she can't stay away anymore.
DISCLAIMERS swearing, reference to domestic violence, neglect, oral fixation
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She didn’t tell anyone about the night in the shed. Not the Pogues. Not even Kie.
It wasn’t the kind of thing she could put into words. Not the way she ate the burger like she was starving, or the way the blankets smelled like hay and salt and safety, or the way he didn’t point out her bruise, not once. Like not seeing it meant she didn’t have to explain it.
It was three nights later when she returned to the shed.
Y/N crept across the field like a shadow, in an old tank top, arms wrapped tight around herself.
She didn’t knock on the front door. Didn’t even look at the house.
She went straight for the shed.
But something was different.
There was a blanket folded on the same pile of sacks where she slept last time. Left there. Waiting.
Next to it: a plastic water bottle. Still sealed. A granola bar. And a zip-up hoodie, big and faded and clearly not hers.
She paused in the doorway, her breath catching.
He knew she would come back.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and slid down against the wall. Her breath trembled a little.
She curled into the blanket and tucked her knees up, thumb absently brushing over the sleeve.
No one had ever made space for her before; not without asking for something in return.
But Rafe didn’t ask anything.
And in her gut, she knew that mattered more than she could ever say.
•••
The sun was just starting to bleed over the trees, still faint enough not to hurt her eyes. The shed door creaked as she pushed it open, slow and cautious.
She stepped into the field with quiet feet, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands. His hoodie, she assumed. The sleeves were already chewed—one of them damp at the edge, the collar stretched from how she curled into it overnight.
She didn’t see him at first.
He was leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed, quietly watching.
She nearly jumped when she finally looked up and locked eyes with him.
Her body stiffened like a deer mid-step.
“Wow,” Rafe drawled, one eyebrow lifting. “Not even gonna say bye?”
She rolled her eyes, immediately snapping into defense. “Well, I didn’t realize you needed one.”
“I don’t. I don’t need anything. Not from you, little pogue.”
She paused. Shuffled in place.
Rafe’s eyes flicked to the hoodie—his hoodie—then to the water bottle clenched tight in her hands. The chewed sleeves.
“Seriously? You’re rationing water?” he asked finally.
She shrugged too quickly. “Didn’t wanna be wasteful.”
“It’s a bottle of water, not fucking liquid gold.”
“Still.”
She wouldn’t look at him.
His voice stayed low; not soft, not gentle. Just… measured.
“You cold?”
“No.”
She was. He could tell.
“Hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. He could tell that too.
“So what,” he said, stepping down off the porch. “You gonna sneak off and pretend it didn’t happen?”
“It was one night,” she snapped, biting at her thumbnail. “I’m not trying to make it a thing.”
He stopped in front of her. Close, but not touching. Just looking at her hunched posture, her twitchy fingers, the way she was still chewing on that sleeve like she didn’t know she was doing it.
“You already made it a thing,” he said.
“...Thanks,” she muttered, eyes on the grass. “For the blanket. And the hoodie. And the… you know.”
He watched her for another second.
Then reached forward and tugged the hoodie’s hood up over her head like she was five and incapable of doing it herself.
“Don’t ruin that one,” he said. “It was my favorite.”
She made a face.
“Shouldn’t have left it in a shed then.”
“Shouldn’t have been sleeping in one.”
That shut her up.
She turned to walk toward the road. Rafe didn’t stop her.
•••
The kitchen at Tannyhill was too clean, almost like no one actually lived there, just moved around in it to keep up appearances. She stood at the sink elbow-deep in soapy water, scraping caked-on egg yolk off a ceramic plate that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
It was late. The sun had already gone down, but the house wasn’t completely dark yet. Just still. Uncomfortably still. Tannyhill always felt like that, like a museum that people walked through instead of lived in.
She moved quietly through the kitchen, bare feet padding across cold tile, sleeves of her hoodie now tugged down over her hands. The place was spotless—of course it was—but she knew her way around by now. Cabinets she wasn’t supposed to open. Drawers that creaked. The fridge that made that weird humming sound when it kicked on.
She opened it and stared.
Nothing that looked like it was hers. Not that anything ever was.
Her fingers trembled as she scanned the shelves—cheese, eggs, bottles of things she couldn’t pronounce. And there, in the back corner, a white styrofoam box.
She grabbed it like it might vanish.
It was light. She peeled it open. It was some leftover pasta, dried and curled, the sauce separating at the edges. The smell hit her, and her stomach turned, but it was food. It was something. And she was too far past pride to care anymore.
She sat on the floor, pulling her knees up as she scooped the pasta into her mouth with the plastic fork in the box. It tasted weird. Sour. Almost metallic.
Her throat clenched around it, trying not to gag. She swallowed anyway.
Another bite. Then another. She chewed fast, panic rising in her chest, cheeks flushed with heat. Her stomach ached from the first bite, but she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, she might cry.
Then—
“Jesus, Y/N.”
His voice hit her like a slap.
She froze, mouth full, fingers trembling against the fork.
Rafe stood a few feet away, shadow stretching across the tile. Barefoot. T-shirt. No expression on his face. Just his eyes, locked on her, unreadable and too bright in the dim kitchen.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Her throat burned.
Suddenly, she wasn’t the version of herself she’d built to survive.
She was just a kid. Sitting on the floor of a stranger’s kitchen. Eating food that had gone bad.
And for the first time in a long time, she really, really felt fifteen.
Tears burned in her eyes before she could stop them. She looked down, blinking fast, wiping her hand across her face.
“Don’t,” she choked out. Her voice cracked. “Don’t say anything.”
Rafe didn’t.
He didn’t move either.
“It’s not like—I didn’t—” She shook her head, the words falling apart before they formed. “I’m not—I wasn’t—”
Her voice broke all the way, small and sharp, and she hated it. Hated how raw she sounded. Hated how her hands looked, how her sleeves were chewed, how she couldn’t even pretend to be okay right now.
“Just leave me the hell alone,” she snapped suddenly, voice shrill and shaking. “Go—go back to whatever rich boy shit you were doing and pretend you didn’t see me, okay?”
Still, Rafe didn’t speak.
He just watched her; quietly, jaw tight, fists in his pockets like he wanted to say something.
She turned her face away.
She waited for the door to creak. For him to leave. For this to end.
But when she finally looked back…
He was gone.
She didn’t cry after that.
She just wiped her hands.
•••
She found him outside the garage the next day, pretending she just needed to grab something from the supply closet.
Truth was, she'd been circling him all morning like a mosquito, biting because she didn’t know how else to deal with being seen.
“You know you can’t pretend I didn’t see that, right?”His voice was calm. Low. Unimpressed.
“Relax,” she said coolly. “Not here to cry over old spaghetti.”
Rafe didn’t look up. Then he spoke again, quieter, firmer, “Wasn’t crying. You were gagging.”
Her mouth twitched, but she played it off, “Whatever. Don’t act like you’ve never been desperate.”
That got his attention.
He looked up, eyes slow, calculating, and tucked his phone into his back pocket like she’d just dared him to take this further.
“See, I thought you were gonna be smart today,” he muttered. “Guess I was wrong. Again.”
She huffed, turning to walk away.
“Don’t start, Rafe. I’m not in the mood.”
But he followed.
Two steps and he was behind her. Then closer. Then too close.
Before she could turn around, she felt his hand on her jaw, firm, fingers pressing in just enough to hold her still.
She gasped softly as he turned her toward him, her back bumping against the wall with a quiet thud. His face hovered inches from hers.
He tilted her chin up with his thumb, a little too tight, a little too steady.
“Are you always mouthy when you’re embarrassed, baby teeth?”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Let go of me,” she whispered.
He didn’t.
“You think that little attitude makes you look tough?” he muttered, voice just above a whisper. “It doesn’t. Makes you look like a kid trying to cover her ass.”
She glared at him, face flushed, lips twitching like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or crumble. “I’m not a kid,” she snapped.
Rafe leaned in closer, his breath brushing her cheek.
“Then stop acting like one.”
His hand slid from her jaw to her cheek, thumb brushing just under the dark bruise she’d tried to cover with foundation.
She flinched. Not from pain. From how gently he touched it.
“Your mom hit you again?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.
“Don’t ask me that,” she whispered.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, Y/N.”
She swallowed hard.
Still pressed to the wall.
Still caged in by the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he’d already solved.
“You done playing big bad Pogue now?” he murmured.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
So he let go.
Stepped back.
But not before muttering under his breath—
“Clean your face, little trouble. You’re not fooling anyone.”
And then he walked off. Like nothing just happened.
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authors note ! hiiii. i hope u enjoyed this chapter i def like this one. ive been thinking of changing the story from x oc to x reader instead because i know thats what most people on tumblr prefer, so let me know if you guys would like that, because if you'd prefer that i'd be happy to make some edits!
