#obx3

3 months earlier

“no sarah, i don’t want you hanging out with those dirty pouges. they’re no good for you all they bring is trouble.” rafe was furious. after trying to push the thought out of his mind that his sister would ever associate herself with john b or any of those god forsaken pouges, it was made very obvious that sarah had made some new friends.

sarah rolled her eyes in annoyance. sarah was a free spirit, adventurous. and she was going to do what she wanted no matter what rafe, ward, or anybody else thought of it.

“tell her y/n. she has enough friends on this island. she has you,” he pointed at you and then threw his arms up. “she has friends, a great boyfriend, and a perfect life. why would you want to throw that away for john b?”

if it wasn’t for the comfortable position you were laying in on the lounge chair by the pool, you might have gotten up to mediate the situation between the siblings, but it seemed like it was out of your hands now. “i’m not getting in between another cameron family argument.” you shook your head and turned the other way.

after some more arguing and a lot of yelling from rafe, sarah had stormed off before you could even gather yourself to join her. as you began to stand up you felt your phone buzz against you.

s.c.: dont follow. going to the cut.

figuring it was best to let your best friend go to the person who made her the happiest, john b, you sat back down, calling rafe over.

“what.” he said sharply, as if you were the person he was directing his anger towards now.

you sighed, but continued. “sit.” you almost demanded, but in a softer tone than he had responded to you with. he gave you a face, but then he sat in the lounge chair next to yours. you sat facing each other; he was still fuming. eyebrows furrowed together, sweat glistening on his skin from the north carolina heat, jaw clench as if he was trying to fuse his teeth together.

he looked beautiful. devourable.

“are you going to keep staring at me like there’s something wrong with you or speak?” he said dryly but almost in a joking manner. it shook you out of your thoughts. “you’re so tense cameron. if you try to keep sarah trapped in the figure eight bubble she’s going to try to break free even more.”

“but she’s throwing her life away, y/n. not to mention she’s embarrassing the whole family by being apart of their trouble.” rafe sighed in defeat and looked towards the ground. but on his way down his eyes didn’t miss the way your bikini hugged your sunkissed hips. he had never noticed before just how hot sarah’s little best friend was. but his mind was too focused on sarah’s defiance to catch anymore details.

your eyes stayed up, but while he wasn’t paying attention to where they were wandering you couldn’t help but look at his muscular figure. his arms perfectly sculpted, with veins running down them as he clenched his fist. all the way up to his shoulders which looked hard as a rock. the sight made an idea pop into your head.

“how about i help you relax and then go talk some sense into sarah, but only if you promise not to try to control her anymore.” he looked at you again, this time almost insulted, but mainly curious.

now the gears in his mind were beginning to turn. “help me relax?” his inquiry prompted you to stand up and show him instead of just telling. as you got up from your lounge chair and walked around to the back of his, his eyes trailed with you watching the way your lower half moved so enticingly with each step you too. your bikini bottoms now stuffed between your ass cheeks making them very apparent, and rafe wasn’t complaining.

you knelt behind him on the lounge chair and moved your hands to begin massaging his shoulders. “like this.” you said in an almost sultry voice. as you kept massaging you admired his back, defined ridges that were undeniably attractive. after a moment rafe eased into your hands. he let out a slight grunt as you kneaded his body. “you’re pretty good at this, l/n.”

you chuckled, trying to pretend like that groan hadn’t given you a wave of heat pulsing in your bikini bottoms, “good enough for you to stop arguing with sarah?”

“yeah.”

“yeah? well then my job here is done!” you moved from behind him and began to gather your things for the second time. this time you reached your whole body over the lounge chair that you had been laying on to grab your bag; your ass right in his face. right where you wanted it.

he noticed.

he noticed the way your jean shorts gripped your thighs and hips as you pulled them up over your legs. the way your breasts, now the only thing fully exposed, sat so nicely in your bikini top. as you turned to walk away his brain illustrated what would happen if he pulled the string to it. unraveling the parts of yourself no one else got to see.

“get my sister in line, l/n.” he yelled out to you as you walked away.

-

You frown slightly, eyes dropping to the pot. “Yeah… why?”

Rafe moves back to the sink, but not all the way. He turns the water back on and picks the wings up again, rinsing them under the stream, but his movements are slower now. More deliberate. Like he’s listening without looking like he is.

“Okay, good,” Becca says. “So- random question- are you busy Saturday?”

Your hand slows on the spoon, the cheese sauce thickening as you drag it along the bottom of the pot. You glance up briefly, catching Rafe in your peripheral. He isn’t looking at you, but there’s a shift in him. Subtle. His shoulders tighten just slightly, his attention no longer fully on what he’s doing.

“Uh… you know you asked me that two days ago?” you say.

There’s a pause on her end. “Did I?” she says quickly. “Sorry, I’ve been extremely busy with planning and stuff, my brain is literally-”

You narrow your eyes a little, suspicion creeping in. “Becca… what are you doing that-”

“Nothing,” she cuts in immediately, too fast to be casual. “Why? Does it sound like I’m doing something?”

Rafe shuts the water off again, setting the chicken aside. He grabs a paper towel and dries his hands slower this time, gaze flicking toward you for half a second before dropping again like he caught himself.

You notice it, but you don’t sit in it.

“I don’t know,” you say, stirring again. “You’re just being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” she says. “You’re being weird for thinking I’m being weird.”

You let out a small laugh under your breath. “Okay… well I’ll let you know. I might have something going on.”

Rafe’s head tilts slightly at that, barely noticeable unless you were already watching him.

“What do you mean might?” Becca presses.

“I don’t know yet,” you say, shrugging even though she can’t see you. “I’ll text you, okay?”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Okay,” she says finally. “Just… don’t make plans.”

You blink, confused. “That’s literally the opposite of what you just said.”

“I know, I know. I just-whatever. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“Alright… love you, bye.”

“Bye.”

The call ends. You pull the phone away and set it back down on the counter, your attention drifting back to the pot as the sauce bubbles softly. For a moment, neither of you says anything. You shake your head slightly and pick the spoon back up, stirring again.

“She’s acting strange,” you mutter.

Rafe hums like it doesn’t matter, picking the wings back up and turning the water on again. “Yeah?” he says. “Sounded normal to me.”

You glance at him. He doesn’t look back. Not really. His focus stays on his hands, on the sink, on anything but you just a little too intentionally. You notice it. But you let it go.

-

Dinner comes together easier than it should. You move around each other in the kitchen without thinking about it, passing things back and forth, reaching for the same drawer at the same time without bumping into each other. It’s familiar in a way that feels almost dangerous if you think about it too long. Conversation fills the space in pieces. Nothing heavy. He tells you about things happening on the island, small bits of drama you’ve mostly stepped away from. You listen, half engaged, half removed from it now, responding just enough to keep it going. By the time everything is finished, the table is covered more than it needs to be. Macaroni, wings, vegetables, drinks. It looks like you cooked for more people than just the two of you.

You sit across from him, adjusting your plate slightly as you settle in. It feels normal. Too normal.

“So,” Rafe says, breaking the quiet as he scoops some macaroni onto his fork.

“So?” you respond, lifting your glass of water and taking a small sip. You’re not even thirsty. You just need something to do. You’re still not sure why you asked him to stay.

“You ready?” he asks.

You pause. “Ready…?”

“For the baby,” he says. “I mean, I know you’ve prepared your house and everything, but are you ready ready?”

You look down at your plate, your fork nudging your food around for a second while you think. “Uh… I think I am,” you say slowly. “I mean, I’m new to this. We both are. I’m as ready as I can be, and I’ll figure the rest out as I go.” You shrug lightly, taking a bite before looking back up at him. “You?”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing loosely as his gaze drops to the table. His brows pull together slightly, that familiar look settling over his face when he’s thinking too hard. “You know… I thought I was,” he admits. “I thought I could do it. But honestly, the closer we get, the more unsure I feel.”

It doesn’t sound like something he planned to say out loud.

“We just have to take it one day at a time,” you say.

He looks up then, meeting your eyes. “Yeah,” he nods. “We do.” There’s a small pause before he speaks again. “I’ve been thinking about moving out of Tannyhill.”

Your head lifts immediately. “What? No. You can’t do that. Why would you do that?”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his head. “It’ll just be the two of us,” he says.

“Two of us?” you repeat.

“Me and baby Cameron,” he says, nodding toward your stomach. Your hand moves there automatically, resting over the curve. “It’s a lot of space,” he adds. “We don’t need all of that.” He says it simply. Not for sympathy. Not to make a point. Just as a fact.

But it still lands heavier than it should. You clear your throat, shifting the conversation before it can settle too deep. “We still need to name her,” you say.

“I thought we agreed on Quinn,” he says, a small smirk forming.

“Did we?” you smile, glancing down at your plate.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we did.”

“I don’t remember that,” you say. “I said we’d think about it.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Alright,” he says. “Do you have any better suggestions?”

You take a sip of water before answering. “I like Blythe,” you say. “Or Esme.”

He nods slowly, like he’s actually considering it, like he’s picturing saying it out loud. The moment stretches longer than it should. You’re halfway through chewing when you feel it- his gaze. It’s not casual. Not the kind you can ignore. When you look up, his eyes are already on you, steady and warm, like the ocean right before the sun fully sets. Calm on the surface, but deep enough to pull you under if you’re not careful. There’s a faint smile on his lips. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… there. It makes your stomach drop.

You glance behind you instinctively, like maybe there’s something else he could be looking at, then back at him again. Your chewing slows, then stops completely.

“What?” you ask, a little more self-conscious than you mean to sound.

He blinks like he’s coming back to himself, shaking his head slightly, but the look doesn’t fully leave his face. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip before he speaks. “Nothing… just memories.”

Your brows pull together. “What memories?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence sit between you, not tense, just full. Like he’s sorting through something he’s not used to saying out loud. “Just… everything that led to this,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “Not even the physical stuff. Just… us. How intense everything was. How we were with each other.”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

“How we ended up loving each other enough to make her,” he adds, glancing down briefly toward your stomach.

You swallow, reaching for your glass and taking a sip of water, this time because your mouth actually feels dry. “All in a year too,” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Isn’t that crazy?” he asks. “How much can happen that fast?”

You shrug, eyes dropping to your plate as you push your food around with your fork. “Time flies,” you say. “Feels like yesterday you were forcing me to slow dance to Migos at Becca’s party.” There’s a small smile in your voice, intentional. You’re trying to steer it somewhere safer.

He nods, but he doesn’t laugh right away. His eyes move over the table, the plates, the food, like he’s seeing it from the outside. Then he pushes his chair back and stands. Your head lifts immediately, your stomach tightening for a completely different reason. For a second, you think he’s about to leave. That maybe you said the wrong thing. That maybe he’s realizing this isn’t going the way he thought it would.

But instead, he walks around the table. He stops in front of you and holds his hand out.

“I owe you a do-over,” he says, voice soft but steady.

You look down at his hand, then back up at him. There’s no playfulness in his expression now. No edge. Just sincerity. “Rafe… I don’t know,” you say, exhaling quietly as your eyes drift back to the table.

“I don’t blame you,” he says easily. “But you deserve a real slow dance. Not one in the middle of a party with Migos in the background and horderves being served around us.”

Your lips press together as you think. He nods his head slightly toward the living room, giving you an out without saying it. You know this is a bad idea. You know exactly where this kind of moment can lead. And still, you place your hand in his. He doesn’t react dramatically. He just closes his fingers around yours and gently helps you to your feet.

He leads you into the living room, and you’re suddenly aware of how unfamiliar he looks there. He’s been in your house before, but never like this. Never just existing in it. Not relaxed. Not part of it. He glances around briefly, taking it in without commenting, then pulls his phone from his pocket.

“What’s a good song?” he asks, scrolling.

You hesitate, your hand slipping from his as reality creeps back in. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” you say softly. There’s no conviction in it. You hear it as soon as the words leave your mouth.

He looks up at you, sliding his phone back into his pocket for a second, his head tilting slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re saying that like it’s illegal.”

“It probably should be,” you mutter. And yet you’re already stepping closer. The only real space between you now is your stomach.

He straightens a little, hands folding loosely behind his back as he watches you. “But it’s not,” he says.

You glance down at the floor, then back up at him. “Unchained Melody,” you say quietly.

His brows lift. “I’m sorry?”

“You asked for a song.”

He lets out a soft breath that almost sounds like a laugh, pulling his phone back out and typing. A second later, the music starts, tinny through the speaker but loud enough to fill the room. He sets the phone down on the coffee table and steps back toward you, holding his hand out again. “May I have this dance?” he asks, just formal enough to make it lighter.

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “You may.” Your hand fits into his again, familiar in a way that feels dangerous. His other hand settles at your side, careful, naturally adjusting to the curve of your stomach without making it a big deal. Yours rests on his shoulder. You start to sway. Slow. Simple. No performance. Just movement. The music hums between you, and for a moment, everything else fades.

His eyes find yours, steady, searching. You try to hold it, but it’s harder than it should be.

“I missed this,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches. “Just being around you,” he adds. “It’s nice. Being around someone who actually cares. Someone I care about.”

You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. “You still care?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. You just need to hear it. This time, you don’t look away. He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll never stop.” The music plays softly from his phone on the coffee table, the sound a little tinny but still warm enough to fill the room. Your hand rests in his, your other on his shoulder, his palm steady at your side, careful where it brushes your stomach. You sway together slowly, neither of you rushing it, neither of you speaking for a moment.

It feels easy. Too easy.

His thumb shifts slightly where it rests, a small, absent movement that sends a quiet awareness up your spine. You focus on your breathing, on the rhythm of the song, on anything that keeps you from thinking too hard about how natural this feels.

His gaze doesn’t leave your face. “I missed this,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s not even sure he meant to say it out loud.

You swallow, eyes dropping for a second before lifting back to his. “This isn’t… what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t step back.

That’s the problem. You tilt your head slightly, searching his face. “Then why does it feel like we’re just pretending nothing happened?”

“We’re not pretending,” he replies quietly. “We’re just not fighting it for five minutes.”

Five minutes. Like this is something temporary. Contained. You shift your weight, the movement bringing you just a fraction closer. His hand adjusts instinctively, steadying you, and for a second it feels less like tension and more like something solid. Something that could hold. That’s what makes you pull back. Not fully. Not enough to break the dance completely. Just enough to create space.

His brows knit slightly. “What?”

You shake your head, letting out a small breath. “We can’t do this halfway, Rafe.”

His hand stills against you. “I’m not trying to do anything halfway.”

“It feels like it,” you say gently. “Because this-” you glance between you, at your hands, your bodies too close for something that’s supposed to be simple, “-this isn’t just nothing.”

He watches you, really listens this time. You can see it in the way his expression shifts, the way he reins himself in instead of pushing forward. “I know it’s not nothing,” he says.

“Then what is it?” you ask, and there’s no bite to it, just honesty.

The question hangs between you. He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words instead of reacting. “It’s me trying to be around you without messing it up.”

You almost smile at that, but it fades too quickly. “You think this isn’t messing it up?” you ask quietly.

His jaw tightens just slightly. “I think pretending I don’t feel anything would mess it up more.”

That lands. Harder than you expect. You look down at your joined hands, then gently loosen your grip. Not pulling away completely, just enough that the shift is clear. “I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. “I don’t know how to stand here with you like this and not… fall back into something I worked really hard to get out of.” He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fix it. “I meant what I said earlier,” you continue, voice softer now. “I want stability. I want this to be good for her.” Your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach. “But I can’t lose myself trying to make it work between us again.”

His eyes follow your hand, then lift back to your face. “You won’t,” he says.

You shake your head slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he replies, more firmly now. “Because I’m not asking you to jump back into anything.”

“Then what are you asking?” you press.

He hesitates. Just for a second. “I’m asking for a chance to be around,” he says finally. “To show up. To not screw it up this time.”

Your throat tightens. “That sounds a lot like the beginning of something.”

“Maybe it is,” he says. “But I’m not trying to rush you into it.”

The honesty in that makes it harder, not easier. You take a small step back, this time letting the distance fully settle between you. His hand drops from your side without resistance. “I can’t think about ‘maybe’ right now,” you say. “I need things to be clear.”

“They can be,” he says quickly. “We take care of her. We figure out how to be around each other without making it complicated.”

You let out a quiet breath. “And what if it still gets complicated?”

His expression softens. “Then we deal with it when it happens.”

That’s such a Rafe answer. Simple. Forward. Not wrong, but not as careful as you need. You study him for a long moment. The way he’s standing there, not pushing, not reaching for you again, just… waiting.

That’s new.

“I’m serious,” you say. “No blurring lines. No pretending this is something it’s not.”

He nods. “Okay.”

“No showing up and doing things like this,” you add, gesturing lightly to the space between you. “Because it makes it harder.”

There’s the smallest flicker of something in his eyes. Disappointment, maybe. But he nods anyway. “Okay,” he repeats.

You hold his gaze, making sure he means it. “We’re just… figuring out how to be good parents.”

“Yeah,” he says. The music keeps playing for another few seconds before he finally steps away, reaching over to pause it. The room feels different immediately. Quieter. More grounded.

You wrap your arms loosely around yourself, not cold, just adjusting to the shift.

“Dinner was good,” he says after a moment.

You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That’s your takeaway?”

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Trying to keep it normal.”

You nod slowly. “Normal is good.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he reaches for his keys on the counter. Not lingering. Not dragging it out.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says.

You walk him to the door without thinking about it. It feels automatic now. Familiar in a way that doesn’t feel dangerous. At the door, he pauses, hand resting on the handle. “I meant what I said,” he adds quietly. “About showing up.”

You nod. “I know.”

He studies your face like he wants to say something else, but decides against it. Another new thing.

“Text me if you need anything,” he says.

“I will.”

He opens the door, stepping out onto the porch. The night air drifts in for a second before you follow him out halfway.

“Drive safe,” you add.

He huffs a small laugh. “I always do.”

You watch him walk to his truck, the same way you did earlier, except this time it feels different. Less uncertain. More… defined. He doesn’t look back until he’s at the door, one hand resting on it as he glances up at you. “Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight, Rafe.”

He gets in, the engine turning over a second later. You stay on the porch until his headlights disappear down the driveway. Only then do you go back inside, closing the door behind you.

The house is quiet again. But this time, it doesn’t feel like something was left unfinished.

It feels like something was set in place.

—

You wake to the repeated vibration of your phone against the mattress. It’s persistent enough to pull you out of sleep, even if you try to ignore it. You groan, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, eyes scanning the tangled sheets as you try to figure out where the sound is coming from. You reach around blindly for a second before your hand finally lands on it. You grab your phone and squint at the screen. Becca’s name flashes across it. Of course. You swipe to answer and bring it to your ear as you let yourself fall back onto the bed.

“What,” you groan, your voice irritated even if you don’t fully mean it.

“Are you up yet?” she asks, way too cheerful for this hour.

“I wasn’t,” you say, a little sharper this time. The tone surprises even you. Hormones.

“Oooh, snappy,” she teases. “I’m headed over there. I need you to shower and wash your hair too, please. I’m stopping to get us some food, which will take about fifteen minutes, so you should be just getting out of the shower. Oh—and make sure to shave.”

You blink at the ceiling. “If I’m shaving, I’m going to need a little more than fifteen minutes in the shower,” you mutter, already swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

“First of all, I’m talking about your legs,” she says immediately. “Second, not that I’m against the bush administration, but you let yourself grow out so much you need that much time in the shower?” She laughs.

You roll your eyes as you stand, stretching slightly before heading toward your bathroom. “I’m not talking about that,” you say. “I’m talking about my belly being in the way. I don’t know why I keep procrastinating buying that shower stool.”

“Just hurry,” she says. “I have a dress I need you to try on.”

“I hate you,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

“I love you too,” she replies, already hanging up.

You stare at your phone for a second before dropping it onto the counter and turning on the shower.

You take your time, even if she told you not to. You wash your hair thoroughly, working conditioner through slowly, then carefully shave your legs, shifting awkwardly to work around your belly. By the time you’re done, the bathroom is thick with steam. When you finally step out, you wrap a towel around yourself and take a deep breath as you open the bathroom door, the cooler air hitting your skin.

You barely take two steps into your room before you jump.

“Jesus-” you gasp, grabbing your chest and leaning against the doorframe.

Becca looks up from where she’s sitting on your bed like nothing happened, pushing a piece of her freshly flat-ironed hair behind her ear. It’s rare to see her without her curls. “What?” she asks.

“You scared me,” you say, exhaling as your heart settles. You push yourself off the frame and walk over, dropping onto the bed beside her.

“Girl, you knew I was coming over,” she shrugs, already digging into a store bag. She pulls out a soft pink dress and holds it up briefly before laying it flat on the bed. “We have somewhere to be in a few hours.”

“We?” you repeat, raising a brow.

“Yes, we,” she says. “I’ve been telling you to get ready for today for the past few days.” She circles the bed and moves to your nightstand, picking up a cup of tea and handing it to you along with a bag that smells amazing.“Eat first,” she says. “You’re not ruining the dress.”

You don’t argue. You open the bag and pull out a bagel egg and cheese sandwich, taking a bite almost immediately. It’s warm, salty, exactly what you need. It doesn’t fully fill you, but it quiets the hunger enough. Once you’re done, you stand and slip the dress over your head. You pause in front of the mirror. It’s… really pretty. Not one of those shapeless maternity dresses meant to hide everything. This one fits. It hugs your body in a way that makes your stomach look intentional, beautiful even. Soft pink, flattering in a way that catches you off guard.

“Aren’t you forgetting underwear?” Becca says from behind you, a smirk in her voice.

“Hush,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you walk to your dresser. “I was going to get to that, but you’re rushing me.” You pull out a pair and step into them before smoothing the dress back down.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she says, already standing and moving toward you. “We still have to do your hair and makeup.”

You look at her through the mirror, narrowing your eyes slightly. “Becca… where are we going?”

Becca meets your eyes in the mirror, but only for a second before she looks back down, already reaching for your brush like the question didn’t matter.

“You’ll see,” she says casually.

You narrow your eyes a little more. “I don’t like that answer.”

She just smiles to herself, sectioning your hair with practiced ease. “Good thing you don’t need to.”

“Becca,” you warn, but there’s no real heat behind it.

She ignores you, dragging the brush gently through your damp hair before plugging in your blow dryer. The hum fills the room, cutting off any further interrogation for the moment. You watch her in the mirror as she works. Focused. Too focused. Every now and then, her eyes flick to yours like she’s checking something, but she never actually answers you.

“That’s a lot of effort for a mystery event,” you mutter.

“It’s not that much effort,” she replies over the noise. “You just forgot what it feels like to get ready for something that isn’t a grocery run.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. She’s not entirely wrong. She finishes drying your hair and moves on quickly, grabbing her flat iron and smoothing out a few sections, adding soft waves at the ends. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make it look intentional.

“Okay,” she says after a few minutes, stepping back to assess. “Cute.”

You tilt your head slightly, examining yourself. It is cute. Soft. Put together in a way that feels… different.

“Makeup?” you ask.

She’s already digging through her bag. “Light,” she says. “We’re not doing a full beat.”

You sit back on the edge of the bed while she works, dabbing concealer under your eyes, brushing through your brows, adding a soft gloss to your lips. It’s quick, but precise. She knows your face well enough to not overdo anything.

When she’s done, she tilts your chin side to side, inspecting. “Perfect,” she says, satisfied.

You grab your phone off the bed, checking the time. “Becca.”

“Mhm?”

“It’s been almost an hour,” you say. “Where are we going?”

She zips up her bag and slings it over her shoulder like she didn’t hear you. “Shoes,” she says instead, nodding toward your closet.

You let out a slow breath, standing and walking over. You slip on a pair of simple sandals, adjusting the straps before turning back to her. “You’re being suspicious,” you say plainly.

She grins. “I know.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

You stare at her for a second longer, trying to read her, but she’s locked in. Whatever she has planned, she’s not giving it up. “Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “If I don’t like this, I’m leaving.”

“That’s fair,” she says easily, already heading for the door.

You follow her downstairs, your hand instinctively resting on your stomach as you walk. There’s a quiet anticipation building in your chest now, mixed with just enough anxiety to make you question everything.

Outside, the air is warm, the sun sitting high enough to make everything feel brighter than it should.

Becca walks ahead of you like she knows exactly where she’s going.

You pause at the door for a second, glancing down at yourself one more time. Pink dress. Hair done. Makeup done. No explanation. Something is definitely going on. You step outside anyway, locking the door behind you.

“Last chance,” you say as you walk toward her. “Where are we going?”

She opens the passenger door for you with a smile that tells you everything and nothing at the same time.

“Get in.”

You hesitate for half a second. Then you do. And whatever she has planned, you’re already in it. The drive is quiet at first, filled only with the soft rush of wind slipping through the slightly cracked windows and the low hum of the engine beneath you. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, just… loaded. You sit with it for a minute, watching the road stretch ahead, until music begins to filter through the speakers.

Soft at first. Then recognizable.

You turn your head slowly, already suspicious, and the second the opening of Juno comes through, your eyes narrow at her. Becca doesn’t look at you. That’s how you know she’s proud of herself.

“You’re so annoying,” you say, but there’s no bite behind it. A smile slips through anyway as you reach forward and turn the volume up. She immediately starts singing, dramatic and off-key on purpose. “You let Rafe make you Junooo,” she croons, completely ignoring the actual lyrics.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “Technically I didn’t let him. It just happened.”

Your eyes drop for a second, almost unconsciously, to your left hand resting in your lap. Your ring finger is bare. Your mind flickers back without permission. A specific night. A specific moment. You push it away just as quickly.

“Gross,” Becca says, making a face like she physically regrets saying anything.

You laugh again, turning your head toward the window to hide it, watching the scenery blur past. It takes a minute before something feels off. Familiar. Your brows knit together slightly as you sit up a little straighter, looking more closely at the streets she’s turning down.

“Becca…” you say slowly, suspicion creeping into your tone.

“Yesss?” she answers, and the way she drags it out tells you everything you need to know.

You turn fully toward her now. She’s already smiling. Not a normal smile. A guilty one. The kind she gives right before she admits she’s done something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Where the hell are we going?” you ask, sitting up more despite the seatbelt pressing against you.

She shrugs, but it’s too quick, too rehearsed. “Relax.”

You don’t. Because now you recognize exactly where you are. Your parents’ neighborhood. Your chest tightens slightly as the car moves deeper in, your eyes scanning the houses you’ve known your whole life. Then you see it. Your parents’ house. From a distance, you can already tell something’s different. The driveway is full. Cars lined up, more than usual. You lean forward a little, trying to get a better look.

“Are my parents having some event I don’t know about?” you ask, confusion threading through your voice as you glance at Becca.

“Uhhh… I don’t know,” she says, shrugging again.

You look at her but she looks straight ahead. For a second, you think she’s lying. Then she drives past your parents’ house. Relief hits you so fast it almost makes you laugh. You lean back into your seat, exhaling, shaking your head.

“Okay, you’re weird, but that was—”

The car slows. Your stomach drops before your brain catches up. She’s turning. Into a driveway. Not just any driveway. Rafe’s.

Your entire body goes still as the car rolls to a stop. You don’t reach for the handle. You don’t move.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but sharper.

Becca doesn’t answer right away. She just puts the car in park and turns to you slowly, that same guilty smile still sitting on her face, but softer now. Less mischievous. More… careful.

“Okay,” she says, holding her hands up slightly like she’s about to negotiate. “Before you get mad-”

“I’m already mad,” you cut in, though it comes out more confused than anything.

“You can’t be mad,” she counters quickly. “You’re pregnant. It’s bad for the baby.”

You stare at her. “That’s not how that works.”

“Close enough,” she mutters. You glance toward the house again. It looks normal from the outside. Too normal. No decorations. No noise. No sign that anything is happening. Which somehow makes it worse.

“Becca,” you say, slower this time. “Why are we at Rafe’s house?” 

She hesitates. Just for a second. Then she exhales. “Because he wanted to do something for you,” she says.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

“He-” she pauses, like she’s choosing her words carefully now. “He came to me. A few days ago. Asked if I would help him plan something.”

You blink at her. “Plan what?”

She gives you a look. And that’s when it clicks. Your chest tightens. “No.”

Becca’s mouth presses into a line like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Yes.”

“No,” you repeat, already shaking your head, your hand instinctively going to your belly. “Becca-”

“Just listen,” she says gently, reaching over and squeezing your arm. “He didn’t want to mess it up. He literally said that. Word for word.” You swallow. “He didn’t know what to do, so I took over. Obviously,” she adds, a little pride slipping through.

“That tracks,” you mutter automatically, but your mind is somewhere else.

“He’s been… trying,” she continues, quieter now. “Like actually trying. He’s the one who suggested it being here. Said it’d be easier. More space. Easier for you.”

Your eyes flick toward the house again. Tannyhill. Big. Clean. Controlled. You imagine him inside. Pacing. Checking things. Wondering if you’re going to walk through the door or turn around and leave.

“I told him,” Becca adds, “that if he did anything to stress you out, I would ruin his life.”

That pulls a small, breathy laugh out of you. “I believe you.”

“Good.”

There’s a quiet moment between you. Then-

“They’re all inside,” she says softly.

Your heart starts beating faster. “Who is all?”

“Your parents,” she says. “A few family friends. Some people from town. It’s not… huge. Just people who matter.”

You nod slowly, trying to process it. “The Pogues?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I figured you’d want something separate with them. Something more… you.”

You appreciate that more than you can put into words right now. Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Heavier. Anticipation.

“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,” Becca says after a second. “We can literally leave. I’ll text him some lie. Say you got sick. Blame it on me.”

You look at her. Really look at her. Then back at the house. Your hand smooths over your belly again, grounding yourself. He planned this. Not perfectly. Not on his own. But he tried. For you. For her. You exhale slowly.

“No,” you say finally.

Becca watches you carefully. “No?”

“I want to see it,” you admit.

Something softens in her expression. “Okay,” she nods.

She gets out first, walking around to your side before you can open your door. When she does, she offers you her hand without a word. You take it. Carefully, you step out of the car, your sandals hitting the pavement softly. The air feels warmer than before. Or maybe that’s just you. Your heart is pounding now.

“Ready?” she asks.

You glance at the house one more time. Then nod. You walk up the driveway together. Each step feels heavier than the last. The front door is closed, but you can feel it. The people inside. The noise waiting on the other side. Becca squeezes your hand once. Then she opens the door.

“Okay-”

The room explodes. “Surprise!”

The sound hits you all at once. Voices. Cheers. Laughter. You freeze in the doorway. Your eyes scan the room quickly, trying to take it all in at once. Decorations. Soft pinks and neutrals. Balloons. A table set up with gifts. Food laid out neatly. Your parents are there. Smiling. Watching you. And then- Him.

Rafe is standing a little off to the side, like he didn’t want to be the center of it. Like he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to stand. But his eyes are on you. Only you. There’s something different in them.

Not nervous in the chaotic way you’re used to. Steady. Hopeful. Like he’s waiting to see if he got this right. Your throat tightens.

For a second, the room fades a little. It’s just him. And the quiet effort sitting behind everything around you. You didn’t expect this from him. Not like this. Not without strings. Not without pressure. But he isn’t moving toward you. He isn’t claiming anything. He’s just… there. Waiting. Letting you feel it first. Your hand presses gently against your belly again.

And for the first time since you pulled into the driveway- you don’t feel overwhelmed. You feel… seen.

For a second, the noise washes over you without meaning.

“Surprise!” Laughter follows. Clapping. Someone cheering too loudly.

You stay where you are in the doorway, one hand still resting on your belly, the other loosely at your side as your eyes adjust and begin to take everything in piece by piece. It’s not overwhelming in the way you feared. It’s… thoughtful. Soft pinks and creams woven through the room instead of anything loud or overdone. Balloons gathered neatly in corners, a long table set up with food that actually looks like things you would eat, not just whatever people throw together for events. A gift table off to the side. A banner, but simple. Not tacky.

It feels like you.

Your mom is the first to reach you. “Oh my baby,” she says, pulling you into a careful hug, one hand immediately cradling the back of your head like she’s done since you were little.

“You didn’t tell me,” you murmur against her shoulder, your voice softer now, still trying to catch up.

She pulls back, smiling. “That’s the point of surprises sweetheart.”

Your dad stands just behind her, hands in his pockets, but his smile gives him away. He steps forward and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Looks like someone’s loved,” he says simply.

Your throat tightens at that. You nod once, swallowing it down. When you look past them, you start to recognize more faces. Eve is already waving at you from across the room, her smile wide and excited. “Congradulations again!” she calls. 

Marie is beside her, shaking her head with a small laugh. “You know I can’t wait to spoil her.”

That makes you laugh softly, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. “You guys came all the way out here?” you ask, stepping further into the room now.

“Of course we did,” Marie says like it’s obvious. “You really thought we’d miss this?”

You shake your head, still processing, your eyes moving across the space again. A few of your friends are here from New York, people you didn’t expect to see here, all smiling, all watching you like this moment matters to them too. It’s not just thrown together. It’s intentional. Your chest warms in a way that catches you off guard.

And then, without meaning to, your eyes find him again. Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s still standing off to the side, near the edge of everything. Not in the center. Not next to your parents. Not beside Becca. Just… present. Giving you space. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but there’s a quiet alertness in the way he watches you, like he’s paying attention to every small reaction you have without making it obvious.

Becca appears at your side again, nudging you lightly. “See? I told you not to be mad.”

You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad.”

She studies your face for a second, then smiles, satisfied. “Good,” she says. “Because you’re hungry, and you’re pregnant, and I’m not dealing with that combination if you were.”

You huff a quiet laugh. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else is already guiding you toward a chair. Conversations start up around you, overlapping, easy, warm.

You sit down slowly, smoothing your dress over your knees, your hand naturally finding your belly again.

“She’s already spoiled,” Eve says, nodding toward the gift table.

“As she should be,” Marie adds.

The afternoon settles into something easy. At some point, you stop standing at the edge of everything and let yourself fall into it. Conversations overlap, people move in and out of the kitchen and living room, music hums softly in the background. Someone insists on starting games, and suddenly you’re surrounded again, pulled into a circle with a pen in your hand and a card in your lap.

“Okay, no cheating,” Eve says, pointing around the room like she’s in charge of something official. “You have to guess the baby item blindfolded.”

“That feels unsafe,” you mutter, but you’re already laughing.

Becca ties the fabric over your eyes anyway. “You’ll live.”

One by one, things are placed in your hands. A pacifier. A tiny sock. Something you’re convinced is not baby-related at all until Marie confirms it absolutely is. You laugh more than you expect to. You forget to be careful for a little while. You forget to monitor every feeling. Even when you lose, even when everyone teases you, even when the pogues aren’t there, it still feels full. Loud in the best way.

Later, plates are passed around, and you eat at the table with everyone talking over each other again. It feels familiar in a different way than last night. Less chaotic, more… rooted. You catch glimpses of Rafe without meaning to. He moves through the space quietly. Refilling drinks. Making sure people have what they need. Checking in with your parents. Listening more than talking. Every now and then, his eyes find you. And every time, he looks away first.

By the time the second round of food comes out, your social energy dips. Not dramatically, just enough that you feel it settle into your shoulders. You slip out quietly with a slow step away from the table and into the kitchen. The moment you step in, the noise dulls behind you. Not gone, just softer. Manageable.

You exhale, longer than you meant to, and move toward the counter. Your hand presses lightly against your lower back for a second before you reach for a glass. “Okay,” you murmur under your breath. “Just needed a second.” You fill the glass with water, taking a long sip as you lean your hip against the counter.

It helps. The quiet. The space. You close your eyes for a second, letting it settle.

“You okay?” His voice is softer here.

You open your eyes. Rafe is standing just inside the kitchen, not too close, not crowding you. Like he made sure you saw him before stepping in fully.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding once. “Just needed some air.”

He glances toward the other room, then back at you. “They’re a lot.”

You huff a small laugh. “They are.” There’s a beat. “Thank you,” you add, looking at him properly now. “For… all of this.”

His jaw shifts slightly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the gratitude. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Of course.”

You take another sip of water, then glance down at the counter. “There’s like… no fruit out there,” you say, almost absentmindedly. “Everything’s heavy.”

He blinks once. “Seriously?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ve been thinking about fruit for the last twenty minutes.”

That makes him smile. “Alright,” he says simply. Before you can even ask what he means, he turns and walks to the fridge.

He opens it. You expect the same sad, half-empty situation from the other day. It’s not. You pause mid-sip. The fridge is full. Actually full. Containers. Fresh groceries. Organized. You spot strawberries, grapes, cut pineapple, even those little pre-packed fruit bowls stacked neatly on the shelf.

You lower your glass slowly. “…Rafe.”

He doesn’t look at you right away. He just reaches in, pulling out a container of fruit like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “What?” he says lightly.

“That was not like this the other day.”

He shuts the fridge with his hip, finally glancing at you. “Yeah. I went shopping.”

You stare at him. “You hate grocery shopping.”

“I know.” He grabs a fork from the drawer and pops the lid open, setting it down in front of you.

“You said I need to do better,” he adds, a little quieter this time. “So I am.”

That lands. You look down at the fruit, then back up at him. There’s no performance in it. No expectation.

Just… done.

You pick up the fork and take a piece of strawberry, the sweetness hitting instantly. “Okay,” you say, nodding slightly. “This is exactly what I needed.”

He watches you for a second, something soft in his expression again. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Tired,” you admit. “But good.”

He nods once, leaning back against the counter across from you, keeping that same respectful distance.

“You did good,” you add after a second. “You and Becca.”

He huffs quietly. “Becca did most of it.”

“You still thought of it.”

He shrugs, but there’s a small hint of something there. Pride, maybe. Or relief. “It mattered,” he says simply.

You nod. “I know.”

There’s a quiet that follows, but it’s not awkward. You take another bite, glancing down at your belly as you rest your free hand over it. “She’s been active today,” you mention.

His eyes drop immediately, attention shifting without hesitation. “Yeah?”

“Probably all the sugar,” you say, smiling slightly.

He steps a little closer this time, slower, giving you time to react. “Can I?” he asks, nodding toward your stomach. You nod. His hand rests there, gentle, familiar now in a different way than before. Just present.

He stays like that for a moment, quiet.

Then- “She’s got a lot of people already,” he says softly.

You look up at him. “Yeah,” you agree.

He nods once, more to himself than anything. “And she’s gonna have everything she needs,” he adds.

You study his face for a second, then glance back down at your belly, your hand now resting over his.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter this time. And standing there in the kitchen, away from the noise, with fruit in your hand and his palm warm against you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It just feels… steady. The moment settles into something quiet. Your hand rests over his, both of you focused on the small space between you, the soft curve of your stomach, the steady rhythm of something bigger than both of you. It’s calm. Grounded. Easy in a way that doesn’t feel dangerous.

The kitchen door swings open. “Well, this is cute.” Becca’s voice isn’t sharp, but it’s not soft either. It lands somewhere in the middle, observant, a little too aware. You both look up at the same time. Rafe’s hand drops almost immediately, not abruptly, not guilty, just… respectful. He steps back a half step, giving you space again before Becca can even fully walk in. You notice that. Becca notices that too.

Her eyes flick between the two of you for half a second, taking in the distance, the fruit on the counter, your expression. She doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she claps her hands together lightly. “Alright,” she says, like she’s redirecting on purpose. “We’re not hiding in here all day.” You let out a small breath, already knowing what’s coming. “It’s time to open gifts.” You glance toward the doorway, hearing the faint rise in voices from the other room, people settling, chairs shifting. Becca looks at you a little softer now. “Everyone’s waiting.”

You nod, setting the fork down. “Okay.”

Then she looks at Rafe. Not harsh. Not welcoming either. Just… measured. “And you,” she adds, tilting her head slightly. “You should probably come too.”

He raises a brow slightly. “It is your child,” she says, like it’s obvious. No attitude. Just fact. There’s a beat.

Rafe nods once. “Yeah. Okay.” No pushback. No sarcasm. Just agreement.

Becca watches that, something unreadable flickering across her face for a second before she turns back to you. “Come on,” she says, softer now, reaching for your hand. “Before Marie starts opening them for you.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “She would.”

“Absolutely would.” Becca leads you out of the kitchen, but not without glancing back once more, quick and subtle, making sure things are… where they should be.

Contained. Rafe falls in step a few paces behind you both, not trying to walk beside you, not inserting himself into your space as you reenter the room. The attention shifts back to you immediately.

“Okay, sit here!”

“No, here, better lighting-”

“Start with mine!”

You laugh, easing back into the noise as Becca helps guide you into a seat near the gift table.

When you settle, your hand instinctively finds your belly again. Rafe takes a spot off to the side, close enough to be part of it, far enough to not take over. And Becca, standing just behind you, keeps one quiet eye on everything. Just making sure it stays what it’s supposed to be. About you. About the baby. Not about anything that could complicate it.

-

The energy of the house shifts slowly. It doesn’t happen all at once. It fades. Voices get quieter. Chairs scrape less. The music gets turned down at some point and no one turns it back up. One by one, people start gathering their things, finishing conversations at the door, giving you hugs that linger just a second longer than usual.

“Call me when you get home,” your mom says for the third time, brushing a hand over your hair.

“I will,” you promise, smiling.

Your dad gives Rafe a firm nod on his way out. Not overly warm, not cold. Just… acknowledging. Rafe returns it the same way. Marie hugs you tight, already talking about when she’s going to see you again, when she’s coming back, what the baby is going to need next.

“Text me pictures of everything you open again later,” she says.

“I will,” you laugh.

Eventually, the front door closes for the last time. And just like that, it’s quiet. There’s still the faint hum of the fridge, the soft rustle of decorations shifting in the air conditioning. But compared to before, it feels almost still. You stand in the middle of the living room for a second, taking it in. Half-empty cups. Wrapping paper scattered around. Opened boxes stacked near the couch. Balloons drifting slightly where they’re tied. It’s a mess. But it’s a good one.

Behind you, Becca exhales dramatically. “Oh my God,” she says, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m exhausted.”

You glance at her, smiling. “You’ve been bossing people around all day. That’s why.”

“Social battery is dead as fuck” she mutters, but there’s no energy behind it now.

She looks around the room, then back at you. Then, very briefly, her eyes flick to Rafe. He’s already started gathering a few plates, stacking them without saying anything. Becca notices. Of course she does.

“I can stay and help clean,” she says, a little too quickly.

You shake your head immediately. “No, you’re tired. Go home.” She hesitates. “I’m serious,” you add. “You’ve done enough.”

Her lips press together. “I don’t mind.”

You step closer, lowering your voice just slightly. “Becca.” She meets your eyes. And you know exactly what she’s thinking. You’re not saying it out loud. Neither is she.

But it’s there: I don’t want to leave you alone with him.

You soften a little. “I’m okay,” you say quietly. “I promise.” Her gaze searches your face, like she’s trying to read something deeper than what you’re giving her. Behind you, Rafe keeps moving. Quiet. Uninvolved. Not inserting himself into the conversation. That helps. 

After a second, Becca exhales. “Fine,” she says. “But I’m texting you when I get home.”

You smile. “Okay.”

“And if you don’t answer-”

“I will answer.”

She points at you. “You better.”

You laugh softly and pull her into a hug. “Thank you,” you murmur. “For everything.”

She squeezes you tighter than usual. “Always,” she says.

Then she pulls back, grabbing her bag. She pauses at the door, glancing once more between you and Rafe. Then she leaves. The door closes. And it’s just the two of you. For a second, neither of you says anything. You turn back toward the room, taking in the mess again, already rubbing your hands together slightly.

“Okay,” you say under your breath. “Let’s-”

“Nope.”

You blink. Rafe doesn’t even look up as he gathers more plates.

“Nope?” you repeat.

“You’re not cleaning,” he says simply.

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Rafe, look at this place.”

“I am,” he says. “That’s why you’re not cleaning.”

You step forward anyway, reaching for a stack of cups on the table. “I can help-”

He turns slightly, not blocking you, just… there enough to stop you without touching you. “I’ve got it.”

You cross your arms. “I’m not helpless.”

“I know,” he says calmly. “That’s not what I said.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Then what are you saying?”

He finally looks at you. “You’ve been on your feet all day,” he says. “You’re tired. You should sit down.”

You hesitate. Because he’s not wrong. But- “I don’t like just sitting while you do everything.”

His mouth twitches slightly, like he expected that. “Then supervise,” he says.

You blink. “Supervise?”

“Yeah,” he nods toward the couch. “Sit there. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

You let out a short laugh. “I would never.”

“Liar.”

You shake your head, but you don’t argue again. Instead, you move a little slower now, lowering yourself carefully onto the couch. Your hand rests on your belly almost immediately, your body sinking into the cushion in a way that makes you realize how tired you actually are. Rafe keeps moving around the room.

He gathers wrapping paper, stacks boxes, clears cups. Takes things to the kitchen and comes back. There’s no complaining, no commentary. Just quiet effort.

You watch him for a minute. “You don’t have to do all of this tonight,” you say.

“I know.”

“You could do it tomorrow.”

“I could.” He tosses another piece of wrapping paper into a bag, then glances at you briefly. “I want to do it now.”

You study him. Your fingers trace lightly over your stomach. “She had a good day,” you say softly.

He nods, moving a stack of plates onto the counter. “Yeah,” he agrees. “She did.”

A small silence settles between you again. Comfortable. You shift slightly on the couch, adjusting the pillow behind your back. “Thank you,” you say after a moment.

He pauses this time for just a second. Then he looks at you. “You already said that.”

“I know,” you say. “I’m saying it again.”

Something in his expression softens. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer this time. Then nods once. “Okay.” He goes back to cleaning.

And you stay where you are, watching him move through the space, watching the mess slowly disappear piece by piece. It doesn’t feel tense or complicated. Only quiet ... .steady. And for once, that’s enough.

Rafe moves back into the living room with another armful of things, dropping them into the trash bag before tying it off loosely. The space is already starting to look different. Less crowded. Less chaotic.

You shift slightly on the couch, adjusting your position, one hand pressing into the cushion beside you while the other rests on your belly. “Okay,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your shoulders once. “I’m officially done for the day.”

He glances over at you. “Yeah, I figured.”

You stretch your legs out a little in front of you, wincing just slightly before you can stop yourself. He notices. Of course he does.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Just tired.”

His eyes flick down briefly to your legs, then back up to your face. He doesn’t say anything for a second, like he’s thinking it through. Then- “Your feet probably hurt.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “What gave it away?”

“Standing all day. Walking around. Those shoes you wore earlier,” he nods toward your feet. “Yeah. They hurt.”

You shrug a little. “I’ll survive.”

He watches you for another second. Then he sets the trash bag aside and walks over, stopping just in front of the couch. “Come here.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Come here,” he repeats, nodding toward your legs.

Your brows pull together. “Rafe, no.”

“I’m just gonna help you out,” he says simply.

“I don’t need-”

“You’re literally wincing,” he cuts in, not harsh, just… stating it.

You open your mouth to argue again, then close it. “I’m fine,” you insist, softer this time.

“I know you are,” he says. “Still.” His quiet persistence makes you hesitate.

Your eyes drop to your feet, then back up to him. “This is weird,” you say.

He huffs a small breath of amusement. “It’s really not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

You narrow your eyes at him. He just waits, standing there like he has all the time in the world. You exhale. “Fine,” you mutter. “But if this gets weird, I’m kicking you.”

“Noted.”

You shift slightly, letting your legs relax a little more. He sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, close enough to reach but not crowding you. His hands are warm when they wrap gently around your foot, careful, like he’s still giving you time to change your mind. You don’t. He starts slow. Nothing dramatic. Just his thumbs pressing lightly along the arch, working out the tension in a way that makes your shoulders drop before you can stop them. You let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no real fight behind it now. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not.” He keeps going, steady, focused, like he’s done this before. Like it’s just another thing to take care of. The room stays quiet. No music. No background noise. Just the faint sounds of movement from earlier settling into stillness. Your head leans back against the couch without you really thinking about it, your hand resting over your belly again.

“This is… actually helping,” you admit after a minute.

He glances up briefly, a small, satisfied look crossing his face. “I know.”

You roll your eyes, but your body relaxes anyway. For a while, neither of you says anything. He switches to your other foot, just as careful, just as quiet. You look down at him, sitting there in front of you, like this is the most normal thing in the world. And for once- It kind of feels like it is. At some point, the quiet stretches too long. Your body sinks further into the couch, your head tilted back, your hand still resting over your belly. Rafe’s hands move slower now, lighter, like he’s easing off without fully stopping. The tension in your legs is gone, replaced with something heavy and warm. You don’t even realize your eyes have closed until they don’t open again. The last thing you register is the steady rhythm of his hands and the faint sound of him shifting closer, careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb you. Then everything fades.

—

When you wake up, it’s dark. Not completely. There’s a soft glow coming from somewhere, low light filtering across the room, but it’s enough to tell you that hours have passed. For a second, you don’t move. You just blink, trying to piece together where you are. The ceiling is different. The air feels different. The bed beneath you is… not yours. Your stomach drops slightly before your brain catches up. Rafe’s house.

You shift slowly, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. The blanket draped over you slides slightly, and you look down, confused for half a second before realizing you’ve been changed from the couch to a bed.

His bed. Your hand immediately goes to your belly, instinctive, grounding. You’re okay. She’s okay. You exhale. Then you notice him. Rafe is on the floor at the foot of the bed.

One arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach, a thin blanket barely covering him. He’s angled slightly toward the bed, like he didn’t want to be too far but also didn’t want to take up space he shouldn’t. Your brows pull together slightly.

“Rafe,” you say softly. No response. You shift a little more, the mattress dipping just enough. “Rafe.”

This time he stirs. His face tightens for a second before his eyes blink open, unfocused at first, then settling when they find you. “Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep as he pushes himself up onto one elbow.

“Why are you on the floor?” you ask immediately.

He blinks, like the question doesn’t quite register at first. Then he glances around, reorienting himself. “Oh,” he mutters. “You fell asleep.”

“I gathered that,” you say, sitting up a little more. “Why are you on the floor?”

He shrugs slightly, like it’s obvious. “I wasn’t gonna leave you out there.”

Your chest tightens a little at that. “You could’ve just put me in the guest room.”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t want you waking up confused.”

You look around the room again. “You think this is less confusing?” you ask.

That pulls a small, tired smile out of him. “Fair.”

There’s a quiet beat. “You should’ve slept in your bed,” you say.

“I am sleeping in my bed,” he replies lightly, gesturing vaguely around him. You give him a look. He huffs a quiet breath, pushing himself up a little more so he’s sitting now. “I didn’t want to make it weird,” he says.

Your eyes soften slightly. “It’s not weird,” you say, though your voice is quieter now.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. He just nods once, like he’s accepting whatever line you draw without questioning it. You glance down at the edge of the bed, then back at him. “You’re gonna hurt your back.”

“I’ll survive.”

You sigh softly. There’s a pause. Then- “Get up,” you say.

He looks at you. “What?”

“Get up,” you repeat, shifting back slightly to make space. “Sleep up here.”

His brows lift. “You sure?”

You hesitate for half a second. Then nod. “It’s a big bed.”

He studies your face for a moment, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then he nods once.

“Okay.” He stands, slower than usual, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal. He pulls the blanket with him, climbing onto the far side of the bed, leaving space between you. A lot of space. You notice that too.

He settles on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The quiet feels different now. Closer- but still careful.

You shift onto your side, facing away from him, your hand resting over your belly again. After a second, you hear him move slightly.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You don’t turn around. “Go to sleep, Rafe.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “Yeah.”

The room falls quiet again. Sleep doesn’t come back right away. You lie there with your eyes closed, listening to the quiet of the room, the subtle shift of the mattress when he settles, the steady rhythm of his breathing on the other side of the bed. It should feel strange. It doesn’t. That’s what makes it worse.

Your fingers curl slightly into the sheet beneath you, the fabric familiar in a way you didn’t expect. Your mind drifts without permission, pulling you backward.

You know this bed. Not just the shape of it or the feel of the mattress. You know it.

You remember late nights sprawled across it, music playing too loud from his phone while he insisted it wasn’t. You remember arguing here, sitting on opposite sides with too much space between you and too much to say. You remember laughing, tangled up in blankets, stealing his pillows because yours “weren’t comfortable enough.” You remember mornings. Waking up before him and watching him sleep, thinking how easy everything felt when he wasn’t talking, when neither of you were saying the wrong thing. Your throat tightens slightly.

You shift on your side, eyes still closed, your hand pressing lightly against your belly like you’re grounding yourself back into the present. This isn’t that. You’re not that girl anymore. He’s not… that version of him either. Behind you, you hear him move slightly. Not closer. Just a small adjustment, like he’s trying to get comfortable without disturbing you. You open your eyes. The room is dim, shadows stretching across the walls, the faint light from outside cutting through the curtains. It’s quiet enough that you can hear the ocean in the distance if you focus hard enough.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s still on his back, one arm resting across his chest now, eyes closed. His face is softer like this. Less guarded. Younger, almost. For a second, it pulls at something in your chest. You turn back quickly, staring at the wall.

Dangerous. That’s what this is. The memories make it easy to forget why things ended the way they did.

You exhale slowly, hand sliding over your stomach again, thumb tracing small, absent circles. “This is different,” you whisper to yourself. Or maybe to her.

Behind you, his breathing evens out completely, deeper now. You let yourself listen to it for a moment.

Eventually, your body gives in again, the weight of the day catching up fully this time. Your thoughts quiet, your breathing slows, and somewhere between memory and present, between what was and what’s trying to be-

You fall asleep again.

—

You don’t realize you’ve fallen back asleep until you wake again. This time slower. Heavier.

Your body feels different- more rested, but warm in a way that makes you hesitate before opening your eyes. The room is quieter now, sunlight softer, stretched across the walls instead of sharp through the blinds.

You blink, adjusting. And then you feel Rafe beside you. Close enough that your arm is tucked between your bodies, his hand resting loosely near your waist- not holding, not pulling, just there. Careful, even in his sleep. You don’t move right away, eyes tracing the familiarity of this room first. The ceiling you used to stare at, the dresser that hasn’t changed, the corner where you used to leave your bag. It hits in quiet pieces instead of all at once.

You’ve been here before. Just… not like this. Your attention shifts back to him. His face is relaxed in a way you don’t see when he’s awake. You study him for a second too long. Then you carefully slide your arm out from between you, slow enough not to wake him. 

The movement is small, but it’s enough. His eyes open. He blinks once, then looks at you properly, like he’s making sure you’re actually there. “Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi.” There’s a brief silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just early.

“You sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Better than I thought I would.”

He shifts slightly onto his back, one arm resting behind his head. “Good.”

Another quiet moment passes. You sit up slowly, adjusting your dress as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your hand presses instinctively to your belly as you steady yourself. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you say.

He huffs softly, almost amused. “You were tired.”

You glance back at him. “You were on the floor.”

“I’ve slept worse,” he shrugs.

That shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. You stand, stretching slightly, then glance around like you need to reorient yourself. “I should probably head home,” you say.

“Yeah,” he nods, sitting up now. “I’ll take you.” Of course he will.

You give a small nod and head toward the bathroom to freshen up, using muscle memory you didn’t realize you still had. When you come back out, he’s already changed- same casual effort, just cleaner, more put together.

⸻

The drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The windows are cracked just enough to let the air in, soft and warm against your skin. His hand rests loosely on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh to whatever’s playing low through the speakers.

You glance out the window, watching familiar roads pass by. Neither of you fill the silence too quickly.

“You hungry?” he asks after a minute.

You glance down at your stomach like it might answer for you. “Always.”

He nods. “I can stop somewhere.”

You think about it for a second, then shake your head. “I’ll eat when I get home.”

He doesn’t push. “Alright.”

Another beat passes. “I had a good time yesterday,” he says, eyes still on the road.

You look over at him.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Me too.” Simple. Honest. He nods once like that’s enough for him. And it is.

When he pulls into your driveway, the engine idles for a second before he shuts it off. Neither of you move immediately. Then you reach for the handle.

“Text me when you get inside,” he says.

You glance back at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “I live alone. I think I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says. “Still.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. “Okay.”

You step out, the air cooler than it was earlier. Your sandals hit the pavement softly as you walk up the steps. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t turn around this time. Not until you reach the door. You glance back then. He’s still there. One arm resting on the steering wheel, watching. You give a small wave before slipping inside.

The house is quiet when you enter. You kick your shoes off and set your bag down, exhaling slowly as the door clicks shut behind you. Your hand drifts to your stomach again, thumb brushing over the curve. “That was…” you murmur, trailing off.

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to. Because for the first time, it doesn’t feel confusing. It feels steady. And that might be the most dangerous part of all.

—

Brunch is louder than you expected. Not chaotic, just… alive. Plates clinking, low conversations blending together, the smell of coffee and syrup and something buttery hanging in the air. It feels like the opposite of yesterday in the best way. Becca is already there when you walk in, seated by the window with a drink in front of her, scrolling through her phone. She looks up the second she hears you.

And then she pauses. Her eyes drag over you slowly. “Okay,” she says, setting her phone down. “Why do you look like that?”

You frown slightly as you slide into the seat across from her. “Like what?”

“Like you just got back from a spa weekend and fell in love with your life again.”

You let out a small laugh, reaching for the menu. “I literally just woke up.”

“Mm,” she hums, unconvinced. “No. This is different.”

You try to ignore that, flipping through the menu even though you already know what you want.

She leans forward slightly, studying your face. “You’re glowing,” she adds, softer this time.

You glance up briefly, then back down at the menu. “I’m pregnant.”

Becca snorts. “Don’t do that. This is not pregnancy glow. This is something else.”

You don’t answer right away. The server comes over, giving you both a moment to order. Becca orders something sweet. You go for something heavier, already hungry again. When the server leaves, Becca picks her drink back up but doesn’t break eye contact with you.

“So,” she says casually. “You gonna tell me, or am I just supposed to sit here and admire the glow in silence?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real resistance behind it. You reach for your water instead, taking a sip.

“It’s nothing,” you say.

“Mm.”

“It is.”

She raises a brow. “You spent the night at his house, didn’t you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

She shrugs lightly. “I have your location.”

You stare at her for a second, then shake your head with a quiet laugh. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ll be that,” she shrugs.

You still don’t give her a definite answer. And that’s enough for her. Becca leans back slightly, taking a sip of her drink, her expression shifting from teasing to something more neutral. Not in a judgmental way but still aware.

“Did he do anything stupid?” she asks.

“No,” you answer immediately. Too quickly.

Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t push. “Okay,” she nods. “Good.”

And she leaves it there. The conversation drifts for a few minutes after that. Small things. Random topics. Nothing heavy. You almost relax completely into it.

Until you don’t. It comes out of nowhere. “I think I might want to try again with him.” The words land between you before you can take them back. You freeze slightly, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Becca doesn’t react right away. She sets her glass down carefully, eyes on you. “You think,” she repeats.

You nod slowly, staring down at your hands. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Not like… right now. Not jumping into anything. Just…” You exhale softly. “He’s different, Becca.”

She studies your face for a long moment. “How?” she asks.

You think about it. “He listens,” you say. “He doesn’t push. He notices things. He… shows up.”

You swallow. “He didn’t try anything yesterday. Or this morning. He just… let things be what they were.”

Becca’s expression softens, but there’s still caution in it. “Okay,” she says quietly.

You glance up at her, almost surprised by how calm she is. “That’s it?” you ask.

“What do you want me to say?” she shrugs. “You’re grown. It’s your relationship. I’m not your mom.” You let out a small breath, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing slightly. “I just don’t want you getting hurt again,” she adds, gentler now. “But I also know I can’t control what you do.”

You nod. “I’m not trying to go backwards,” you say.

“I know,” she replies. “And I don’t think you are.” There’s a pause, but it’s not heavy. “Just don’t ignore red flags because things feel good,” she adds, giving you a pointed look.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I won’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

She watches you for another second, then finally leans back again. “Okay,” she says simply.

Your food arrives a second later, breaking the moment naturally. Plates set down, conversation shifting again. But something has changed because now it’s not just a thought in your head. You said it out loud.

And somehow… it still feels steady.

-

By the time you pull into your driveway, the sun is sitting higher, heat settling into everything like the day finally decided to wake up. You grab your bag from the passenger seat and step out, already thinking about what you’re going to eat next. Brunch helped, but not enough. As you walk up the path toward your front door, you’re digging through your bag for your keys, not really paying attention.

“Don’t freak out,” a voice whispers sharply.

You gasp, jumping back so fast you almost drop your bag. “What the hell-”

JJ pops up from the side of your porch, crouched like he’s been hiding there for minutes. “Hi,” he says.

You clutch your chest. “Oh my God. I hate you.”

Before he can respond, John B stands from behind one of your patio chairs, and Pope steps out from the side of the house, both of them looking significantly more serious.

“We need to come in,” Pope says quickly.

“Right now,” John B adds.

You stare at all three of them. “Why are you hiding on my porch?”

“Minor situation,” JJ says.

“What kind of situation?”

“Just open the door,” Pope insists, already glancing over his shoulder.

You sigh but unlock the door, stepping aside as all three of them rush inside like they’re being chased. JJ shuts the door behind him and leans against it like that’s going to help. You turn to face them, arms crossing. “Explain.”

John B exhales. “We might’ve been chased.”

“By who?”

“Kooks,” JJ answers immediately.

Pope points at him. “You antagonized them.”

“I did not antagonize them.”

“You called him a trust fund leech to his face.”

“He is a trust fund leech.”

“That’s not the point.”

You hold up a hand. “Okay. Stop.” They quiet down. You look between them. “Are they still looking for you?”

There’s a pause. “Probably not,” John B says.

You narrow your eyes. JJ shrugs. “We lost them,” he adds.

“You don’t sound confident.”

“We’re alive,” he says.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “You guys are ridiculous.” You head toward the kitchen anyway. JJ follows immediately.

“Do you have food?” he asks.

“Of course that’s your first concern,” you mutter, opening the fridge.

Pope lingers for a second before relaxing enough to step in. John B leans against the counter like everything is fine now. JJ reaches past you.

“Hey,” you say, slapping his hand lightly. “Ask.”

“I am asking.”

“No, you’re grabbing.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

You hand him something anyway. He grins. “Thank you.”

You grab a glass of water, leaning against the counter. John B watches you.

“So,” he says, “what were you up to?”

“Brunch with Becca,” you answer.

“How was that?” JJ asks, taking a banana from your fruit bowl and peeling it.

“Normal.” 

Pope studies you. “You look good.”

You glance at him. “That sounded hesitant.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. “You just look… happy.”

JJ squints. “Yeah. Suspiciously happy.” he says, mouth full of banana.

You take a sip of water. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” JJ hums.

John B shifts slightly. “Did something happen?”

You hesitate for a second. “I had my baby shower yesterday.”

All three of them pause. JJ straightens. “You had your what?”

“My baby shower.”

“At Tannyhill?” Pope asks.

You nod. John B frowns. “We weren’t invited?”

JJ scoffs, taking another bite. “That’s crazy.”

“It was a surprise,” you say.

They pause again. “A surprise?” Pope repeats.

“Yeah,” you say. “I didn’t even know about it until I got there.”

That softens it slightly, but not enough. JJ crosses his arms. “Okay, but someone could’ve told us after.”

“It was mostly my parents, Becca, Marie, some of my friends from New York,” you explain. “It wasn’t really… planned like that.”

John B tilts his head. “And Rafe?”

You sigh. “What about him?”

“It was at his house,” Pope says.

“And?” you reply.

JJ narrows his eyes. “And you’re glowing.”

You stare at him. “I’m pregnant.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You set your glass down. “Nothing is going on.”

They all keep looking at you. You point between them. “Do not start.”

JJ lifts his hands. “We’re not starting anything.”

“You are absolutely starting something,” you say. “And you’re going to stop.”

Pope exhales. “We’re just asking.”

“And I answered,” you say. “It was a baby shower. That’s it.”

John B nods slightly, backing off. JJ doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go for now.

Pope shifts. “Becca could’ve invited us.”

You let out a small laugh. “Becca barely tolerates you.”

“That’s not true,” John B says.

You raise a brow.

JJ scoffs. “She loves me.”

“I don’t even think she likes you.”

“That’s not true.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, I’m sure you would’ve loved spending an afternoon at Tannyhill with Rafe Cameron.”

JJ makes a face. “Okay, no.”

“Exactly,” you say.

Pope shrugs. “Still, we would’ve come for you.”

That softens you. “I know.”

JJ straightens again like he’s had an idea. “Well, that’s fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Because you don’t just get one baby shower,” he says.

You blink. “Yes I do.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You don’t.”

John B nods. “He’s right.”

Pope is already thinking. “We can do something smaller.”

You cross your arms. “You guys are not planning a baby shower.”

“Too late,” JJ says.

“That’s stupid,” you say, shaking your head.

JJ grins immediately. “Stupid things have good outcomes all the time.”

You stare at him. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be,” he says. “Look at us.”

“That proves my point.”

John B laughs. “It’ll be fine.”

“Probably,” JJ adds.

“Probably?” you repeat.

He shrugs. “Relax.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling now. “You’re all insane.”

“And you love us,” John B says.

You look at them standing in your kitchen, eating your food, acting like they belong here.

Your chest feels lighter. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”

JJ points at you. “Good. Then don’t make plans anytime soon.”

You groan softly, leaning your hip against the counter. “I swear, if one more person tells me not to make plans-”

“Nothing will happen,” JJ cuts in immediately, like he’s been waiting for it. “Because you love us.”

You pause, slowly looking at him. He just grins, completely sure of himself. You shake your head, trying to hide the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re not saying no,” he shoots back.

You let out a breath, glancing between all three of them. They’re already acting like it’s happening, like the decision’s been made without you. And the worst part is… you don’t hate it.

You roll your eyes, pushing off the counter. “If this ends with JJ ruining anything, I’m leaving my own baby shower.”

“Wow,” JJ says, offended. “No faith.”

“None,” you confirm.

John B claps his hands once. “Alright, it’s settled then.”

“It is not settled,” you argue, but they’re already talking over you, throwing out ideas, ignoring every protest.

You take another sip of water, watching them take over your space like they always do. Loud. Chaotic. Completely ridiculous. And somehow, exactly what you needed. You glance down, resting a hand over your stomach, a small smile finally slipping through.

“Don’t get used to this,” you murmur under your breath.

JJ looks over immediately. “Too late.”

You shake your head again, but this time you don’t fight it. Because for the first time all day, everything feels easy.

—————

Your brain immediately offers two explanations:

1. He was nervous. Overthinking. Building up the courage.

2. He’s bored. Or lonely. Or horny.

You decide -very deliberately- to believe the first one. It feels better. Safer. Less… annoying. Then you remember the sink.

“Shit.” You drop your phone back onto the counter and rush to turn the faucet off before the pan overflows. The moment you twist the handle shut, your phone dings again. You grab it.

Unknown Number: My apologies for taking so long to reach out. I just didn’t really know how to approach me texting you after the other night.

You blink once. Twice. Then, before you can overthink it, another message comes through.

Unknown Number: Which I enjoyed, by the way. Not just the sex but your company too.

You smile despite yourself. A real one. Soft and small, like you’ve been caught doing something private. You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the screen, rereading it once more just to make sure it still says what you think it does.

Cute, you think. Dangerously so. You type back.

You: Hey, Drew. And it’s okay- I’ve been pretty busy anyway.

Casual. Controlled. Just enough distance to keep the balance where you want it. Before you can second-guess yourself, you exit the messages app and open your browser instead. The familiar local takeout site loads, photos of glossy noodles and steaming rice bowls filling the screen as your stomach growls in agreement. Dinner is officially someone else’s problem tonight. You place your order and sink down onto the couch with a sigh- trying to act normal while your pulse hums just beneath your skin.

A week later, and just like that, he’s back in your orbit. And you already know -whether you admit it or not- that you’re going to make him wait just a little longer before he figures out where he stands. You save his number quickly, thumbs moving on autopilot, slotting it neatly into your contacts as Drew S - casual, unceremonious, like you’re not very aware of the way your pulse keeps jumping.

Almost on cue, a message pops up.

Drew S: Working?

You answer faster than you mean to, the response sent before you can overthink the tone.

You: Something like that.

A beat passes. Just long enough for you to wonder if you should’ve waited.

Then:

Drew S: I was actually reaching out to see if you wanted to hang out sometime? Maybe catch a movie or get dinner?

You pause, phone hovering over your lap. Your instinct is to say yes -immediately, enthusiastically- because there’s no real reason not to. He’s polite. Thoughtful. Nervous in a way that feels earnest, not rehearsed. Which is exactly why you don’t give it to him right away. You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’re negotiating with yourself. Let him wonder a little. Let him sit with it.

You: A movie sounds nice. It just depends on the day.

Another pause - longer this time - and you can almost picture him rereading that, parsing every word.

Drew S: I was thinking this upcoming Thursday, if that works for you. And if not, I’m sure we can find another day that works for both of us.

You smile despite yourself. It’s careful. Respectful. Almost formal. Still- you don’t answer right away.

You: I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.

Drew S: Sounds good.

You leave him on read. Not because you’re busy. Not because you’re unsure.

Your calendar is wide open Thursday - glaringly empty - but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that so easily. Even though you already know he’s not a game-player. Even though everything about him so far suggests patience, not entitlement. Still. You can’t help it. Time passes. Your takeout arrives. You curl into the corner of your couch, legs tucked beneath you, orange chicken steaming in its container as you absently poke through it with your chopsticks.

It’s only then - mid-bite, relaxed, full - that you decide he’s waited long enough. You pick up your phone.

You: Thursday works for me.

You barely have time after pressing send before the typing bubbles appear. Immediately. You laugh quietly to yourself, biting your lip as if that might hide the smile threatening to give you away.

Drew S: Great! Looking forward to it.

You set your phone down beside you, letting Norah Jones fill the apartment again, warmth settling into your chest. You don’t text back right away. Let him have that too.

——

Thursday comes faster than you expected. You twist in front of the mirror, studying your outfit. A white wife beater layered under an oversized pale blue cardigan, black capris just below the knees, and simple black kitten heels. Your hair is down, the curls from yesterday now soft and natural, tousled like you didn’t even try. It may be slightly more put-together than necessary for a movie night, but it feels like you.

Barefaced, no makeup -you didn’t want him thinking you tried too hard- though a swipe of lip gloss catches the light and you fuss with your hair until it looks like an accidental 90s blowout. Picking up your phone, you see a message from him, sent twenty minutes ago while you were getting ready.

Drew S: I’ll meet you in the lobby.

You grin, heart skipping. He’s waited, and yet here you are, fashionably late.

You: Sorry, just now seeing this. I’m headed out now. Should be there in fifteen.

Drew S: No worries. The movie doesn’t start for another twenty.

You grab your keys and head out, stomach fluttering in ways you’d thought were reserved for teenage crushes. When you pull into the theater parking lot, the butterflies in your chest are relentless. You shut off the ignition and step inside, the blast of air conditioning hitting you like a wall. Your eyes scan the theater lobby, settling on him immediately. Freshly buzzed hair, surprisingly perfect on him. A simple white shirt under a heavy leather jacket, black cargo pants, black-and-white Adidas Sambas. Hands tucked into his pockets, he’s surveying the space until his gaze finds yours.

You offer a small, tentative smile and approach.

“Hey,” you say, fingers tightening on the strap of your shoulder bag.

“Hey,” he answers, chuckling softly. There’s a quiet amusement in his eyes, corners crinkling, the kind of restrained grin that almost gives him away. He opens his arms, but you hesitate. Just as you reach, he retracts slightly -a perfectly timed, awkward near-miss- and then, after a moment of hesitation, you both extend your arms again. Hugging safely, like distant relatives, but with a warmth that makes your chest hum.

“Sorry I’m late- traffic,” you say casually, as though you weren’t scrutinizing your reflection for ten straight minutes.

“No, you’re not. I’m early,” he rushes to reassure you, palms brushing against his pants as if they’re conspiring against him.

You nod slowly, glancing around. “So… what do you want to watch?”

He meets your gaze before looking away, biting his lip, just enough to show nerves under the cool exterior. “Uh… actually, I was giving you the choice.”

You laugh quietly, a short huff escaping your nose. A soft smile follows. “I just watched the trailer for the second Five Nights at Freddy’s. Is that okay?” You tilt your head slightly, enjoying the subtle fold in his composure as he averts his gaze.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, nodding toward the ticket counter. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about it.”

You begin walking in that direction. “Have you ever seen the first one?”

“Uh-” He lets out a breathy laugh, glancing down. Cheeks faintly pink. “Actually, I haven’t.”

“Oh, we don’t have to watch that one. We can pick something else-”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind, really.”

You approach the counter together. You reach into your bag for your wallet, but he’s faster, already handing over his card to the clerk with a smooth, silent shake of his head that says I got this. You nod, hand dropping from your bag, heart skipping a little. Not that you expected him to pay- but seeing him do it so effortlessly? Definitely hot. You catch his brows knitting in concentration, the casual efficiency somehow magnetic.

And then -suddenly- your mind betrays you. Bathroom. Him inside you. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, pressing you back into his chest. Hungry, precise, consuming. A flash of heat pools between your thighs before you can even register it.

“Y/n?” His voice cuts through your reverie.

“What?” You shake your head, snapping out of it, cheeks warming.

He smirks, just a hint, lips tugging into a half-grin. “I asked if you were hungry.”

You follow him to the concessions, nodding weakly. Heat still lingers on your cheeks, betraying the memory of last night as he slides his card back into his wallet, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, entirely unaware of -or maybe perfectly aware of- the effect he’s having.

He quickly orders a large popcorn and two Icees- one big red one for him, a big blue one for you. The clerk raises an eyebrow at the coordinated colors, but Drew just shrugs, calm and casual as always. You take the cup from him with a small smile, the chill of the frozen drink waking your fingers just a little.

Together, you step into the theater, the air heavy with the scent of buttered popcorn and the faint hum of the projector. You lead the way, his presence close behind, each step echoing softly on the carpeted stairs. The theater is sparsely populated, only a handful of other moviegoers dotted across the rows, letting the two of you feel like the only people in the room.

Once you finally settle into your seats, trailers and advertisements blaring from the massive screen, you tuck your legs beneath you and keep your eyes fixed forward, letting the brightness wash over your features.

“So… how was your week?” His voice comes low, deliberate, as though he’s aware of the empty space between you and feels compelled to fill it, even though the booming Pepsi ad is already doing that job.

You glance at him, a small, soft smile tugging at your lips as you sip through your straw. And then it happens- the same way it did at the party. His eyes flick down, a subtle, drawn-down gaze tracing the movement of your lips, then back up, lingering just enough to catch you off guard.

“It was good,” you answer quietly, careful of the few others around, though your tone carries a warmth meant only for him. “How was yours?” You meet his gaze again, locking eyes like it’s the only conversation that matters in the room.

He exhales, slow, almost relieved, like he’s been holding it in for a while. “It was… okay.” he admits, offering a small, tentative smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. You smile back, soft, indulgent, your chest warming at the subtle vulnerability he rarely lets show. There’s a pause, comfortable and charged, the glow of the screen reflecting off both of your faces, and you can’t help but think that somehow, just sitting here, feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You shift slightly in your seat, reaching for the popcorn. Drew leans just a fraction closer as your hands brush over the tub, a subtle but deliberate closeness that makes your stomach flutter. You catch his eye out of the corner of your vision, and he gives a small, almost apologetic smile, like he’s aware of the effect he’s having but doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

You pop a kernel into your mouth, chewing slowly, and notice him subtly glancing down at your lips before returning his gaze to yours. Your lips twitch into a soft smile, almost teasing, though you don’t say anything. The glow from the screen dances across his face, highlighting the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the slight pink tint in his cheeks.

“You didn’t answer me earlier,” he murmurs quietly, almost shyly, as though speaking a little louder would break the fragile bubble around the two of you.

“Hm?” You tilt your head, straw hovering over your lips.

“About your week. You said it was good, but… nothing more than that,” he says, shrugging like it’s casual, though the way he watches you tells a different story.

You laugh softly, a low, almost private sound. “It really was good. Nothing crazy. Work, errands… boring adult stuff.” You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes flicking to the screen, then back to him. “Yours? Besides the obviously improved part since we met?”

He smirks, the faintest ghost of a blush on his cheeks. “Touché,” he whispers, leaning back just enough to create space but not so much that the gap between you feels empty. “It really was fine… better now, definitely.” He bites his lip, like he’s holding himself back, and you can feel it- the quiet, contained energy he radiates, part shyness, part subtle dominance in the way he holds your attention without moving a muscle.

The trailers roll on, but neither of you is really watching. You grab a handful of popcorn and offer it to him. “Want some?” you ask, hand hovering with the kernels.

He shakes his head lightly, eyes soft, voice low. “I’m good… I think I’ll just watch you eat.”

You freeze mid-chew, eyebrows lifting, and then bite back a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said… I like watching you. It’s… nice,” he admits, voice quiet, measured. He shifts slightly, brushing just a little closer, almost unconsciously, as if proximity alone is a comfort.

You swallow, heat rising to your cheeks, and decide to lean into it, letting your hand linger near his on the popcorn tub. Just enough contact to make him aware of it, just enough to make yourself aware of him. He catches your glance, eyes soft, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips.

For a few moments, you sit like that. Side by side, sharing popcorn, you explaining the premise of the first film, tension thick but unspoken. The movie trailers flicker across the screen in front of you, bright and loud, but the space between you two is quieter than anything else in the theater. And for the first time since the party, you feel the delicious edge of anticipation- the slow, simmering pull that makes every glance, every subtle touch, feel electric.

Then, without a word, he shifts slightly, just enough to brush his arm against yours. Not an accident. Not a shove. Just deliberate, casual closeness that speaks louder than any conversation could. Your pulse spikes, a soft hum of awareness, and you realize: the movie hasn’t even started, but somehow, this… this is exactly what you were waiting for.

The lights dim further, and the opening trailer fades into the black screen of the theater. The unmistakable hum of anticipation fills the room, punctuated by the low rumble of the surround sound as the first scenes of the movie flicker to life. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to focus on the screen, but the faint brush of Drew’s arm against yours keeps your attention half on him, half on the flickering images in front of you.

He seems equally aware, though his composure is nearly perfect. Shoulders relaxed, hands resting on his lap, but there’s a subtle tautness in the way his eyes occasionally flick toward you, just long enough to catch your expression. You can feel the warmth of his presence beside you, close but restrained, and it makes the inside of your stomach coil pleasantly.

You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes trained forward, but he notices anyway. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, just… observant, like he’s cataloging every small detail. The way you chew popcorn, the soft tilt of your head when a jump scare makes you flinch, the tiny hum you let out when the tension in a scene spikes.

“You’re… very focused,” he murmurs quietly, voice low, almost a purr meant only for you. You catch the subtle curve of his lips in the dim light.

“I’m just… trying not to scream,” you whisper back, leaning slightly toward him without meaning to. Your arms brush, and the touch is electric in the soft darkness. He doesn’t flinch; if anything, he seems to lean imperceptibly closer, careful, considerate, without breaking the moment. A particularly tense scene makes you inhale sharply, and you feel him shift slightly beside you. His hand hovers near yours, brushing almost accidentally against your fingers as he adjusts in his seat. You don’t move yours away. Instead, you let it linger, just enough to register, just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick toward your hand, then up to your face, and for a moment the movie might as well not exist.

“Not bad,” he whispers, almost shyly, eyes flicking back to the screen, voice husky but controlled. “You… jump pretty easily.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised, lips twitching with the smallest, knowing smile. “You’re enjoying watching me flinch, aren’t you?”

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. “Maybe,” he admits softly, almost conspiratorially. “It’s… kind of fun.” His gaze lingers on you just long enough for you to feel the warmth behind it, a quiet, teasing intensity that’s so subtle you almost question if it’s real.

You bite your lip, looking back at the screen, but your mind is spinning with the memory of him from the bathroom, the way he touched you, the way he watched you. The memory makes your thighs tighten ever so slightly beneath the fabric of your capris, and you can feel him notice, because his next glance toward you is softer, measuring, almost reverent.

The movie rolls on, jump scares and suspenseful moments flashing on screen, but your focus has shifted entirely to the silent communication between you two: the brush of his arm, the way his knee occasionally presses closer to yours, the soft exhale he lets out when you flinch or shift in your seat.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, letting the tension breathe between you. It’s unspoken, electric, and completely intimate, even in a crowded, dark theater. And as the first reel comes to an end, you realize- you don’t need words. Every glance, every subtle movement, every half-smile shared in the dim light says more than anything either of you could say aloud.

The credits finally roll, and the theater is quieting down. Outside, night has fully settled in, bathed in soft, amber light from the overhead lamps. You stretch slightly, the tension from the movie and the lingering buzz of sitting close to Drew making your body hum in a pleasant, fluttering way.

“So… that was…” you trail off, trying to find the words, though your lips twitch with a soft smile. “Intense. Definitely scarier than I expected.”

He chuckles, the low sound warm in the darkness. “Yeah… I didn’t think it would get me that much either,” he admits, voice quieter than necessary, like he’s savoring the soft aftermath of the movie and your proximity. “But… you made it better.”

You glance up at him, a little startled by the statement. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes locking on yours for just a moment, soft but steady. “Watching you react… made it fun. Better than watching it alone.”

Your chest warms, heart skipping a beat. You gather your bag, and he rises with you, hands casually tucked into his pockets but shoulders slightly forward, attentive. The walk to the parking lot is quiet, the night air cool against your skin, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. You walk side by side, neither of you speaking much, letting the comfortable silence stretch.

When you reach your car, you pause, hand on the door handle. He stops beside you, a few inches away, and looks down at you with a soft, almost vulnerable expression, the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur, voice quiet but genuine. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, voice low, almost a whisper meant just for you. There’s a pause, long enough that the air between you feels charged, electric. Both of you are waiting- for what? A kiss, maybe. Or just a moment that lingers.

You catch the faintest quirk of a smile on his lips and feel your heart hammer in your chest. Instead of leaning in, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, hugging him firmly. He stiffens for the briefest second, then hugs you back, warm and tentative, like he’s holding himself back from leaning further.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a moment. “Goodnight,” you whisper softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs in response, his hand brushing your back as you step away.

You open your car door, giving him one last glance. There’s a quiet understanding, a shared electricity, even as you settle into your seat. He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching you, a soft, shy smile tugging at his lips before he finally turns and walks back to his own car.

As you start the engine, your chest still fluttering, you can’t help but think how perfect the night was- quiet, simple, full of subtle tension, and leaving both of you wanting just a little more.

When you get home, you drop your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and let yourself sink into the couch like your body’s been waiting for permission to exhale. The apartment is quiet in that way it only ever is late at night- refrigerator humming, city noise muted through the windows, your thoughts suddenly much louder than everything else.

You pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen longer than you mean to. Your thumb hovers. Retreats. Hovers again. You tap your nails anxiously against the sides of the phone, a nervous little rhythm, before finally pressing his name and hitting call before you can talk yourself out of it. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. You’re already preparing what you’ll say to his voicemail when the call finally connects.

“Hello?” he answers, voice warm but surprised like the idea of you calling this soon hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Hey,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how fast your heart is beating.

“Hey,” he replies, casual but with a thread of confusion woven through it. Curious. Awake.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to feel it.

“I- um…” You sigh, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the couch cushion. You don’t know when the script flipped, when you became the nervous one, but here you are. “I just wanted to say… I had a really great time tonight.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“And,” you add before you can overthink it, “I’d like to hang out again sometime.”

Silence stretches across the line. Your brain does what it always does- spirals. He’s unsure. He’s reconsidering. He’s replaying the hug. He’s muted himself to pace his living room. He’s regretting everything. Or-

He lets out a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not cocky. Almost relieved.

“I’m glad,” he says, and there’s something genuine there that settles your nerves a notch. “I really enjoyed it too. I was hoping you’d say that.”

You smile to yourself, knees tucking up under you on the couch.

“And yeah,” he continues, voice softening just a little, “I’d love to do it again. Hopefully… soon.”

The word hangs there -soon- not a promise, not a question. Just an opening.

“Yeah,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t mean as much as it does. “Soon sounds good.”

You can practically hear his smile through the phone.

Neither of you rush to hang up. And for a moment, it feels like you’re both standing in the same quiet space again -not touching, not crossing any lines- just aware of each other in that way that makes the waiting feel intentional.

-

Morning comes slower than you expect. Sunlight leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, cutting across your couch, your discarded cardigan, the spot where you fell asleep with your phone still in your hand. You check the time. Too early to text. Too late to pretend you forgot about him. Your phone buzzes anyway.

Drew S: Morning 🙂

You stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering. He didn’t overdo it. No follow-up. No pressure. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

You wait. Brush your teeth. Make coffee. Let the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. Then-

You: Morning

Three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Appear again.

Drew S: Hope you slept okay

You picture him saying it- careful, gentle, like last night. You take a sip of coffee before replying.

You: I did. You?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Drew S: Yeah eventually

You smile to yourself. Good. Your phone buzzes again before you can decide whether to push or pull.

Drew S: I was thinking about what you said last night. About hanging out again.

There it is. The opening. The invitation to make it easy. You don’t.

You: Oh yeah?

Three dots. Stop. Start.

Drew S: Yeah. I’d like that whenever you’re free

You let the message sit. Long enough to feel intentional, not accidental. You set your phone down, busy yourself with nothing, then pick it back up.

You: I’m pretty busy this week. But I’ll let you know

It’s not a lie. It’s just… incomplete.

This time the typing bubble doesn’t show up right away.

When it finally does, his response is careful.

Drew S: Okay just let me know. No rush

You can almost hear him choosing every word. You imagine him rereading the thread, wondering if he misstepped, replaying the hug, the almost-kiss, the phone call.

You soften- just a little.

You: I did have fun though. Just so you know

The reply comes faster than anything else he’s sent.

Drew S: I’m really glad. Me too

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to. You lock your phone, letting the quiet settle back in, knowing exactly what you’ve done- left him warm, hopeful, and just uncertain enough to keep thinking about you all day.

And somewhere between the coffee cooling on the counter and the sunlight shifting across the floor, you realize: You didn’t push him away. You just didn’t let him get comfortable.

-

“So,” Clarissa says, dragging the word out as she sets her mimosa down a little too deliberately, eyes glinting across the brunch table. “Tell me how one casually finds themselves hooking up with the Drew Starkey.”

You freeze for half a second, fork hovering midair.

“Shhh,” you hiss, immediately glancing around the patio, paranoia flaring even though no one is paying attention. You drop your voice and finally cut into your omelette. “And we are not hooking up.”

“Oh?” Jana cuts in, already smug as she pops a square of waffle into her mouth. “So you didn’t sleep with him?”

You shoot her a look.

“Yes, you did,” Yasmine says easily, completely unhelpful, swirling her iced coffee like she’s narrating a documentary.

“Once,” you say, emphasizing the word as you finally take a bite, “does not count as hooking up. That was a one-night stand.”

Clarissa tilts her head. “But you went out with him again.”

“We went to the movies,” you correct. “That was it.”

Jana nearly chokes. “You’re telling me you had the chance to sleep with him again and you didn’t?”

Her tone is so scandalized it almost makes you laugh.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” you shrug, wiping your mouth. “And honestly? He didn’t seem like he was pushing for it either.”

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. So he’s into you into you.”

You roll your eyes, but you can feel heat creep up your neck.

“Not surprising,” Yasmine adds casually. “He looked like he was about to kiss you when he walked us to the Uber.”

You side-eye her hard. “He probably would’ve if you weren’t standing there staring at us like an audience member.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Don’t blame me. You’re cold. He was probably scared you’d shut him down.”

“I’m not cold,” you argue.

Clarissa hums, watching you with a knowing smile. “You didn’t kiss him, didn’t sleep with him again, didn’t give him clarity-”

She lifts her glass. “Congratulations. You’ve officially made him nervous.”

You stab another bite of omelette a little harder than necessary, lips pressing together to hide the smile threatening to form as you eye your phone that sits in your lap. Clarissa is the first one to clock it.

“You keep checking your phone,” she says lightly, swirling her mimosa.

“I’m not,” you reply too fast, eyes still trained on your plate.

Jana snorts. “You’ve checked it three times since the waffles arrived.”

“That’s not true.”

Yasmine leans across the table, lowering her voice like this is a confidential briefing. “Did he text you?”

You pause. Just long enough to answer the question without words. “No,” you say finally. “And that’s fine.”

“That is not fine,” Jana says immediately. “You literally called him Thursday night to tell him you had a good time.”

“And?” you shrug. “Balls in his court.”

Clarissa raises a brow. “You hugged him goodbye. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t sleep with him. You gave him nothing to work with.”

“I gave him honesty,” you argue.

“You gave him mixed signals,” Yasmine corrects gently. “Which, to be fair, is kind of your brand.”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not desperate.”

“No one said desperate,” Clarissa says quickly. “We’re saying intentional.”

Jana grins. “Text him first.”

“No.”

“Text him,” Yasmine echoes.

“Absolutely not.”

Clarissa slides her hand across the table toward you like a peace offering. “You don’t even have to flirt.”

“Yes I do,” you argue. “That’s the problem.”

Jana leans in, elbows on the table. “You literally fucked him against a bathroom sink and now you’re scared to send a text?”

“That is different,” you say defensively.

“How?” Yasmine asks.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “…Because texting implies continuation.”

Clarissa smiles slowly. “Exactly.”

You glance down at your phone that you moved to sit face-down beside your plate. Your thumb taps against the edge once. Twice.

“What would I even say?” you ask, quieter now.

Jana doesn’t miss a beat. “Something casual. Cool. Slightly dismissive.”

Yasmine nods. “But not cold.”

Clarissa adds, “Something that makes him think you’re busy but still thinking about him.”

You groan. “That’s impossible.”

Jana grins wider. “No, it’s you.”

You flip your phone over, screen lighting up. No new notifications.

“Five words,” Clarissa says. “Max.”

You inhale. Exhale. Open your messages.

You: Hey. How’s your Sunday going?

You stare at it for a full five seconds before hitting send.

Immediately, regret.

You drop the phone face-down again like it might burn you.

Jana claps once. “Proud of you.”

“Now,” Yasmine adds, “we wait.”

You pick up your fork again, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

Across the table, Clarissa smiles into her drink.

“Don’t worry,” she says sweetly. 

Four minutes pass. You know because you count them.

You pretend not to -fork moving, nodding along while Jana talks about something unrelated- but now your phone is face-up now, curtesy of Yasmine, screen dimming and lighting again every time you ‘accidentally’ touch the screen.

Then it lights up for real. You don’t grab it right away. You let it sit. Two seconds. Three. Casual. You pick it up.

Drew: Hey. It’s been pretty slow, honestly. Just trying to enjoy the quiet. How about you?

It’s a normal text. Friendly. Relaxed. Which is annoying.

Jana clocks your face instantly. “He answered.”

You slide your phone closer to your plate, angling it away like you’re not about to reread the message for the fourth time.

“He took four minutes,” you say.

Clarissa hums. “That’s intentional.”

Yasmine smiles. “That’s someone trying not to answer too fast.”

You type. Delete. Type again.

You settle on something easy.

You: Brunch with friends. Nothing too exciting.

You hit send, then immediately lock your phone.

Jana raises a brow. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” you ask. “Thinking about you?”

“Maybe not that,” Clarissa says. “But you could give him something.”

You shrug. “I did. I replied.”

Your phone buzzes again. This time, you don’t wait.

Drew: That sounds nice. I’m glad you’re out doing something fun.

There’s a pause after that. You stare at the typing bubble when it appears. Then disappears. Then appears again. Your stomach flips.

Drew: I was actually thinking about you earlier.

You repeat the text to the girls. The table goes quiet. You swallow. 

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

Yasmine smiles slowly. “There it is.”

Clarissa leans back, satisfied. “Your move.”

You glance down at the screen, heart thudding- the push-pull tightening, subtle and electric.

You type. Stop. Erase it. Then finally:

You: Were you?

And just like that, you give him nothing- and everything at the same time.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

No pause. No hesitation.

Like he was already holding his phone.

Drew: Yeah. I was.

Your breath catches. Just a little.

It’s simple. No emojis. No explanation. Just the truth laid bare like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Jana makes a small noise. “Oh, he’s gone.”

You don’t respond right away- not because you’re calculating this time, but because your chest feels tight in a way that’s unfamiliar. Real.

Another message comes through before you can even decide what to say.

Drew: I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye. And how I didn’t kiss you.

Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read this text out loud.

Across the table, Yasmine watches your face soften. “You like him,” she says quietly.

You don’t deny it. You type slowly this time.

You: I thought you didn’t want to.

Three dots appear immediately.

Drew: I did. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your stomach flips.

There’s something almost unfair about how gentle he is- how he says exactly what he means without trying to impress you. 

Jana exhales dramatically. “He’s respectful and hot? That’s illegal.”

You bite your lip, then type:

You: You could’ve tried.

This time, there’s a pause.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Then:

Drew: …Yeah. I probably should have.

You smile despite yourself.

Clarissa leans over. “That right there? That’s the moment he fell.”

You shake your head, but your fingers betray you.

You: So what now?

The typing bubble appears again- steady, deliberate.

Drew: I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

You stare at the message, heart racing, the pull tightening again.

And for once - you don’t know whether you’re about to push him away…or pull him closer.

You stare at his message for a long moment.

I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

It’s earnest. Too earnest to ignore- but not something you’re ready to meet head-on.

You type anyway.

You: Maybe. We’ll see how this week goes.

You hit send before you can soften it.

Three seconds pass.

Four.

Then his reply comes through- one message, no push, no ego.

Drew: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No question mark. No attempt to claw for reassurance. Which somehow makes your chest ache more than if he had.  You lock your phone and set it face-down on the table.

Clarissa tilts her head. “He take it well?”

“Too well,” you murmur.

Jana squints. “Men don’t do that.”

Yasmine smiles softly. “Unless they like you.”

You reach for your coffee, fingers warm around the mug, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Back to the way he looked at you in the dark theater. The way his voice dropped when he said better now. The way he didn’t kiss you- not because he didn’t want to, but because he cared more about how you felt than what he wanted. Conversation continues around you -brunch plans, weekend gossip, someone’s new job- but it all washes over you like background noise.

Your phone sits there, silent. You don’t turn it over. But you think about him anyway. You think about how easy it would be to text him later. How hard it would be not to. And somewhere between bites of omelette and sips of lukewarm coffee, you realize something unsettling: You didn’t leave him on read to be cruel. You did it because if you kept talking… you might stop pretending you didn’t already care.

Later that night, the apartment is too quiet.

-

You’re curled up on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, one leg tucked under you, the TV on but muted- something familiar you’re not really watching. The glow from your phone lights up your face every few minutes as you pick it up, check it, set it back down again.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself that’s good. That this is what you wanted. You open your messages anyway.

The thread with Drew sits near the top, his last text still there: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

So reasonable. So calm. You scroll up without meaning to.

I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye.

I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your chest tightens in that annoying way it’s been doing all day. You type. Delete it. Type again.

You: Hope your Sunday ended okay.

Too nice. Delete.

You: Still thinking about that movie.

Too obvious. Delete.

You toss your phone onto the couch beside you and drag a hand down your face.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to no one.

You weren’t trying to play games - at least, not consciously. You just didn’t want to be the one who leaned in first again. Not when it already felt like you’d done that last night with the phone call. Not when you liked him enough that it scared you a little.

You pick your phone back up. This time, you don’t open your messages. You open his contact. Your thumb hovers over his name. If you text him now, he’ll probably answer. If you don’t, he’ll probably let you be.

And that thought -that he’d respect your silence- does something uncomfortable to your stomach.

You exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling. You don’t text him. Not yet. But you don’t put the phone down either.

You just lie there, screen dimming in your hand, thinking about the way he said yeah, I was like it was the easiest truth in the world.

And wondering which would make you feel worse: Letting him worry… Or realizing you already are.

-

The clock blinks 12:43 a.m. and your apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You’re still wrapped in your oversized sweatshirt, legs still curled under you, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give you answers.

You grab your phone. Your thumb hovers over his contact, heart thudding just a little faster than it should. The decision is impulsive- boredom, curiosity, and desire all tangled together in one electric pulse.

You tap his name.

You: you up?

The three dots appear almost instantly, and your chest does that little flip.

Drew: yeah. can’t sleep. you?

You: same. movie in my head won’t stop playing.

He responds quickly.

Drew: let me guess… Five Nights at Freddy’s 2?

You laugh quietly into the dark.

You: exactly. how’d you know?

Drew: because I remember you talking through every trailer about the first film.

You bite your lip, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your sweatshirt.

You: huh. so you were paying attention.

Drew: I always pay attention. Especially to you.

Your stomach twists in anticipation. You set the phone down for a second, staring at it, and then pick it back up.

You: wanna come over?

There’s a beat of silence that stretches your pulse across eternity. Then the familiar typing bubble appears.

Drew: …yeah. give me twenty?

Your fingers hover over the screen for a second, then you type:

You: okay… I’ll send you my address.

You hit send, then feel that little rush of heat -a mix of nerves and excitement- as you imagine him navigating to your apartment.

Drew: got it. see you soon.

The second he says that, you jump into action.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every corner of your apartment. “Okay, okay,” you mutter, tossing your sweatshirt onto the chair, tugging off your leggings. You grab a fresh pair silk white of shorts and a tank top from the drawer, tossing your hair up into a messy bun.

A quick shower turns into a flurry- water splashing, shampoo lathering, the sound of the shower echoing like a countdown in your apartment. You’re brushing your teeth at one point while mentally checking off all the things you could have forgotten: towels, lighting, making sure the couch blanket isn’t wrinkled…

Every few seconds, you glance at your phone, heart jumping when it lights up with a notification- but it’s just the timer you set for yourself. You remind yourself that in exactly twenty minutes, he could be here, and your pulse surges again.

You finish up, towel-dry hair, toss on the fresh clothes, swipe on a hint of lip gloss, and glance in the mirror. Your reflection is messy, unpolished, but perfect for tonight- unpretentious, casual, a little flirty just by default. You grab your phone, set it on the counter, and sit on the edge of the couch, legs swinging slightly, waiting for the familiar sound of him buzzing your apartment. The anticipation hums through you, electric and delicious.

After running your fingers through your hair, you dust the loose strands off your silk two-piece night set. The fabric glides softly over your skin, catching the low light from the lamp you’d left on. Just as you’re about to settle onto the couch, the faint buzz of the apartment intercom pulls you upright again.

You bite the inside of your cheek and step over, leaning close to the speaker.

“Who is it?” you ask, letting just the tiniest hint of playfulness edge your tone. You know exactly who it is, but it didn’t hurt to make him think you might have other company.

“Uh… it’s Drew,” he says, his voice catching just slightly, like your little question caught him off guard.

You smirk, buzzing him in. “Come on up.”

Quickly, you give your apartment a once-over. Cushions fluffed, a throw neatly draped over the couch, your phone now moved over to charge on the side table. You’ve done enough tidying for tonight- the rest will just have to look… effortless.

Before you can even catch your breath, a sharp knock lands on your door. Three knocks, deliberate, confident. You stand there, fingers brushing against the doorframe, glancing at your watch. A minute, maybe a minute and a half, passes. You want to seem composed, not desperate- patient, just enough to make him wonder what you’re thinking. Finally, deciding that’s long enough, you reach for the handle and pull the door open.

There he is. Beige cargo slacks, crisp white t-shirt, leather jacket hanging just right over broad shoulders. Hands casually in his pockets, yet every inch of him radiates that effortless, magnetic draw. His eyes flick to yours, a little dazed, a little reserved, and suddenly the space feels charged.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping aside. He takes the cue, sliding past you into the apartment without a word.

“Hey,” he says again, eyebrows furrowed just slightly, eyes scanning the space as you close and lock the door behind him. There’s a momentary pause -subtle, electric- like he’s taking it all in, committing it to memory.

“Make yourself at home,” you say lightly, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

He toes his shoes off without hesitation, hands still tucked in his pockets, following you a few steps behind. “You expecting someone else?” His voice is low, casual, but the little quirk in his tone betrays curiosity- maybe even mild amusement.

“Mhmm,” you shrug, opening the cup cabinet and pulling out two glasses. “Sometimes people just show up randomly.” You meet his gaze over your shoulder and let your lips curve into a playful smirk.

He tilts his head, bottom lip poking out slightly, still digesting that casual admission. “Huh. Good to know,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You shake off the brief tension. “Water, tea, wine? Or… coffee?” You let the question float in the air, easy, almost mundane, letting him settle into the moment.

“Water’s fine,” he says, sliding onto the stool in front of your kitchen island. He folds his hands on the counter, shoulders relaxed, but there’s that soft tension in the air- the quiet pull between composure and something unspoken.

You pour two glasses of water, the sound of liquid filling the glasses echoing softly in the kitchen. You set one in front of him and take a sip from your own, feeling the heat of the moment press lightly against your skin, as if the room is waiting for one small spark to ignite it.

He catches your eyes mid-sip, that shy-dazed look softening into a small, crooked smile. “So… this is nice,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent, as if even ordinary water tastes better in your presence.

You smirk, letting him simmer in that quiet tension, taking a deliberate sip, already imagining how the rest of the night might unfold.

“So… how was your Sunday?” you ask, leaning back slightly as you lift yourself onto the counter in front of him. Your legs swing freely, bare, letting the cool air brush against your skin.

His gaze drops instinctively to your thighs before darting anywhere but your eyes. He takes a slow sip of water, swallowing audibly, then exhales with a quiet sigh. “It wasn’t too bad. Yours?” His shrug is casual, but when he finally looks up, there’s a tension in his jaw, like he’s measuring you as much as himself.

You bite your lip, pretending to think, eyes scanning the kitchen like you’re deep in thought. “Mhmmm… it was okay.” Your gaze flickers back down to him, sharp and teasing. “Better now,” you add, almost casually, though your tone carries weight.

He tilts his head, pretending confusion. “How so?” he murmurs, like he doesn’t already know.

You arch an eyebrow, the kind of “really?” tilt that makes him pause mid-breath. With a deliberate motion, you take the glass from his hand and set it to your side, letting your fingers brush his knuckles in the process. Then, slowly, you shift, sliding fully onto the counter, your legs parting just enough for your feet to dangle on either side of his thighs.

“You’re here,” you murmur, voice low, almost purring, as your hand snakes up the sleeve of his leather jacket, fingers tracing the line of his arm before gripping the collar and tugging lightly. It’s not enough to pull him down, but his body reacts anyway- rising to meet you, eyes scanning your face with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race.

“You still… never kissed me,” you tease, letting your knees subtly bracket his hips, feeling the warmth of him close against your skin.

“I take that as… you want me to now,” he murmurs, leaning just enough so you can feel his breath, minty and warm, ghosting over your lips. His eyes are locked on yours, searching, soft but commanding, like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t actually need.

“That… would be nice,” you whisper, nodding slightly, keeping your gaze pinned on his, daring him without words.

And then, without hesitation, he closes the space. His lips crash into yours, not rough, not rushed, but heavy with intent, claiming you in a way that sends a shockwave straight through your body. Your hands instinctively rise, tangling in the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the short buzz of his hair, pulling him closer.

His hands find your waist, fingers digging in just enough to ground you against him, tilting your hips slightly forward, deepening the contact. Your breath hitches against his mouth as he shifts, pressing in, slow and deliberate, letting the kiss linger and tease all at once.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears. There’s just him, you, the heat building between your bodies, and that intoxicating mix of softness and control in the way he holds you, the way his eyes still search yours through the kiss, hungry but reverent all at once.

Your hips shift almost instinctively, pressing forward as he deepens the kiss, and you feel the immediate weight of him pressing against you. One of his hands slides lower, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat radiating from his body is enough to make your breath hitch.

You respond without thinking, grinding your hips up into him, testing the hardness already straining against his beige slacks. His lips part slightly against yours, letting out a low, guttural groan that vibrates against your mouth. He tilts his head, pressing you harder into him, guiding your movements without ever letting go of the kiss, letting you feel just how turned on he already is.

Your hands slide down, fingers brushing the fabric of his pants, rubbing over the outline of him. You feel the reaction immediately- the way his body stiffens, the way his hips press back into you, matching your movement. He groans again, softer this time, almost a warning, almost a promise, but his eyes never leave yours, dark and hungry.

“Fuck…” he murmurs against your lips, breath shaky, his hands tightening slightly on your ass, anchoring you, making every movement intentional. “You feel… so good like this.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still kissing him, rubbing up and down through his pants, teasing, testing, letting him know exactly how much you notice him, how much you want him. His reaction is instant, one hand moving to your lower back, guiding you as you grind, the other still cupping your ass, holding you perfectly in place.

“You’re… dangerous,” he mutters, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you closer. “And I… I can’t… resist you.”

Your lips curve into a sly smile against his, shivering slightly from the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Good,” you murmur, voice husky, “because I don’t plan on stopping.”

And just like that, the push-pull between you ignites further- him dominating softly but entirely captivated, you teasing and grinding, your hands doing the talking as much as your lips, and the tension between need and control stretching taut in the air.

He groans into your mouth as he grips your ass tighter, lifting you effortlessly off the counter. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, and the press of his body against yours sends a shock of heat straight through you. He carries you toward the living room, the leather of his jacket brushing against your bare thighs, the anticipation in the air thick and electric.

Just as he’s about to lay you down on the couch, you shift slightly in his arms, a sly smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, voice low, teasing. His eyebrows lift, clearly caught off guard but intrigued.

Before he can ask, you twist your body, nudging him gently but firmly toward the couch. “You lay down,” you instruct softly, brushing your lips over his jaw, watching his reaction.

For a moment, he hesitates -his eyes searching yours, a mixture of shock and arousal flickering there- but the soft dominance in your tone wins. He sinks onto the couch, letting out a low chuckle, eyes dark and locked on you as you straddle him, your knees on either side of his hips.

“Good choice,” you murmur, leaning down, letting your hands trail over his chest, brushing against the rising hardness through his pants. He exhales shakily, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place.

Your lips hover over his for a beat, just to tease, before lowering to capture his in a slow, deliberate kiss. Your weight presses lightly into him, and the subtle control -you on top, guiding the rhythm- sends a shiver through both of you.

He groans low in your mouth, hips lifting slightly, pressing into you, already straining with need. Your hands slide down, brushing him through his pants again, teasing, testing, coaxing. His eyes flutter closed, jaw tightening, breath catching, completely surrendered to your control yet utterly captivated by your every move.

“Fuck… you’re insane,” he murmurs, voice rough and breathless, eyes still locked on yours. “And I… I love it.”

You smirk, grinding lightly, letting the heat between your bodies do the talking. “Good,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “Because I’m just getting started.”

The tension coils between you, every glance, every touch, every subtle movement a mix of dominance and submission, teasing and surrender, as the air around you crackles with desire.

You straddle him, leaning forward just enough to let the heat of your body press into his, lips brushing his jaw and neck as you whisper, “You look really good like this.”

He swallows, throat tight, trying to keep that calm, collected demeanor he’s known for, but the way your weight presses down on him, your hands tracing slow lines across his chest, is unraveling him just enough. His hands twitch at his sides before he finally lets them drift to your hips, fingers gripping lightly, testing the boundaries of your control.

“Mm… you’re… unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes darting up at you, trying to maintain composure while his body betrays him. “You really know what you’re doing, huh?”

You smirk, leaning down to press your lips to his collarbone, then pulling back just slightly, letting your gaze meet his. “I think you’ll tell me,” you tease, grinding lightly against him, the friction making him inhale sharply.

Your hand drifts lower, sliding into the waistband of his pants. His eyes widen fractionally, biting his bottom lip to keep the groan from escaping. You cup him through the fabric of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

He exhales sharply, hips lifting slightly on instinct, trying to stay in control but failing miserably. “Fuck…,” he murmurs, voice husky, shaking his head slightly as if trying to convince himself he’s still calm.

You hum against his neck, grinding down a little more, teasing, watching his chest rise and fall with every shallow breath. “Mmm… I don’t think you’re that good at pretending, Drew,” you murmur, fingers sliding faster, just enough to make him shiver and clench under your touch.

His hands grip your thighs now, trying to anchor himself, trying to act like he’s not unraveling completely beneath you. “… I can’t… fuck…,” he groans, voice tight with need, eyes dark and glistening. 

Your smirk grows. “Good. I want you like this.”

Finally, you lean down, lips brushing his ear, whispering just for him, “Let me help.” Your other hand slips expertly to the waistband, tugging his pants down along with his boxers in one smooth motion.

The sight of him, fully revealed beneath you, makes you bite your lip, thrilled by the control and the desperation masked as composure in his eyes. He exhales sharply, chest rising, hands still gripping your hips, trying to steady himself as you take the next step, guiding him with your hands and your teasing presence.

He groans low, letting out a shaky laugh, whispering, “I- fuck… you’re… something else,” still trying to keep that cool exterior, even though every stroke, every brush of your fingers, is melting him entirely beneath you. You shift your weight, leaning forward until you’re hovering over him, thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rises and falls faster as his eyes track every movement you make, the faintest bite of anticipation tugging at his bottom lip.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide down, letting your hands glide along his hips for guidance as you sink to your knees between his thighs. The subtle brush of your hands along his inner thighs draws a shiver from him, though he tries to keep his expression composed. His jaw tightens, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second, just long enough for you to know he’s lost a little control. You lean in, breath warm against him, and begin teasing him with the tip of your tongue, dragging it lightly over the head before taking him fully into your mouth. The faint pressure of your lips and the slow, deliberate movements make him exhale sharply, hips pressing instinctively toward you.

He doesn’t speak- he doesn’t have to. The wide-eyed, almost incredulous look on his face, the way his hands twitch toward your hair before gripping the sides of the couch, says it all. He’s trying to act like he’s still cool, still in control, but every soft hum and teasing glide of your lips is undoing him.

You watch him carefully, gauging every reaction- the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle arch of his back, the tightening of his thighs around you. You let your tongue flick along the underside slowly, teasing, coaxing, letting him adjust and react, keeping a deliberate rhythm that’s equal parts sensual and commanding.

His eyes stay on you, disbelief and want flickering across his features. A low groan escapes him, muffled, restrained, as though he’s trying to convince himself this is happening. His hands tense slightly at his sides, then relax, letting you take control -and you can feel it. The way his hips lift, the subtle bucking against your mouth, the tiny exhalations that escape between teeth- all of it tells you he’s completely undone, but still trying to play it cool.

You pull back just slightly, letting your tongue trace along the slit before taking him in again, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every inch, every flick of your tongue. He bites his lip, eyes dark and wide, a soft, almost whispered groan breaking free despite his attempts at composure.

Your hands grip his thighs, grounding him, keeping him steady as you move with purpose, letting your mouth and fingers do all the talking. He exhales raggedly, still trying to act like he’s not completely mesmerized by you, like he’s not already losing control.

Every soft hum, every gentle swirl of your tongue is met with a tightening of his body, small whimpers he swallows, his jaw flexing, a low, restrained “shit…” caught between lips. The disbelief is written all over him- that quiet, tense, awe-struck sensation of a man who can’t believe he’s this lucky.

And you lean in closer, pressing a kiss lightly against his thigh, eyes flicking up at him, smirking just enough to let him know you know exactly what effect you’re having.

You slide a hand up his hip, tugging him closer as your mouth takes him deeper, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. His breath hitches sharply, hips twitching involuntarily, fingers clenching at his sides as he tries to maintain some composure.

“Fucking hell…” he groans low, eyes half-lidded, trying to act like he’s still calm, but his body betrays him completely. His chest rises and falls erratically, thighs tensing as your lips and tongue work over him with deliberate pressure. His eyes widen, a shallow inhale escaping him as you rise to your knees.

Without hesitation, you push him back gently against the couch, straddling his thighs. Your bare skin slides against his, the friction sending an immediate jolt through both of you. He groans, unable to help himself, hands gripping your hips as you settle your weight down on him.

You grind slowly at first, savoring the moment, rocking your hips with purpose. His jaw tightens, mouth opening in a soft, strangled gasp as he tries to keep his cool, but it’s a losing battle. Every movement, every grind of your body over his, makes him whine softly, the restrained groans breaking into more desperate sounds.

“Fuck… oh god…” he mutters, hands clutching your waist, trying to stay grounded, trying to stay composed, but the heat in his body is unraveling him. His hips buck instinctively into yours, chasing friction, chasing feeling.

You lean forward, hair brushing his chest, pressing down harder into him, setting the rhythm. Your thighs squeeze around his hips as you ride him, rolling your hips in perfect, deliberate strokes. He’s a moaning, writhing mess beneath you- desperate, needy, his control slipping further with every motion.

“Y/n…” he breathes, voice thick, struggling between trying to stay composed and giving in to the pleasure. His hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you down into him with every stroke, rocking you faster.

You tilt your hips, angling yourself just right, letting the friction hit that spot inside you that makes your breath catch. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips as a coil of heat snaps tight in your stomach. You bite your bottom lip, fingers digging into his shoulders, eyes closing as the pleasure builds impossibly high.

He groans beneath you, desperate but trying to stay cool, but the sound of your moans, the way your body moves against him, drives him wild. He’s straining into you, hips jerking, trying to hold back while you ride him with increasing fervor.

Then, just when you can’t take it anymore, your back arches, hips snapping forward, and you shiver violently as your orgasm crashes through you. You cry out softly, legs trembling, squeezing him tight as heat coils low in your body, every nerve alight.

He doesn’t last long after that- every gasp, every tremor, every grinding movement from you pushes him over the edge. He shudders, groaning loudly, spilling into you with an intensity that leaves him a panting, moaning mess beneath you. His hands clutch your hips, guiding your movements as he rides out the wave of his own release.

You stay on top, riding out the aftershocks together, both of you gasping, shivering, bodies slick and trembling. Finally, you lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest, letting the rhythm slow as your breathing evens out.

He lifts his head slightly, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and unfocused from the intensity. “Holy… shit,” he mutters, voice rough, still trembling.

You smirk, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Told you I was just getting started,” you murmur, though your body feels spent, satisfied in a way that makes the room feel heavy with heat.

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, pulling you close and holding you down gently. The dazed, lost look in his eyes is unmistakable, and you can feel the satisfaction of having taken control, set the pace, and left him completely undone- and yet, he’s still trying to play it cool, still trying to regain some composure even as he melts under you.

-

You shift off him slowly, letting your legs touch the floor first, chest heaving, body still trembling from the intensity. His chest rises and falls as well, but the dazed, shy look has returned, that quiet, almost guilty shyness he wears so well after moments like this. He’s trying to act like he’s composed, but you can see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the way his eyes keep darting to yours before looking away.

You sigh softly, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off your forehead, glancing down at the evidence of the night still clinging between you. “Mm… let’s clean this up,” you murmur, voice low, not wanting to break the intimacy but needing some practicality.

He shifts nervously, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “Uh… you okay?” he asks, still soft, still shy, like he doesn’t want to bother you.

“I’m fine,” you reply, reaching for that sweatshirt you tossed on the couch earlier. You press it gently against yourself, wiping away what’s left of him that slipped out, feeling the warmth linger, the memory of him still pressing into your skin. He watches quietly, almost reverent, hands finally sliding down to tug his pants and boxers back up with careful, slow motions, like he’s afraid of ruining the delicate tension of the moment.

You slip your shorts back on, tugging them into place, smoothing the fabric over your thighs. Your hair is damp, sticking slightly to your shoulders, but you don’t care- he doesn’t seem to either, still sitting there, slightly hunched, staring at you like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s really here.

You lean against the arm of the couch, brushing your fingers over your damp skin, chest still rising and falling. “I guess…” you start, voice low, eyes meeting his, “I guess that’s it for tonight.”

He swallows, cheeks still pink, lips parted slightly. He nods, not saying much, because saying much would ruin this- the soft tension, the shy awe, the quiet satisfaction of what just happened. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice husky but still restrained.

You step closer, reaching out to brush a hand over his shoulder, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He stiffens slightly, then relaxes, eyes closing briefly at the touch. You don’t want to rush him, don’t want to kick him out just yet, but the night has run its course.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say softly, voice low, teasing without teasing. You watch him, knowing he’s processing everything, still that shy, controlled presence even after being completely undone.

He nods again, voice quiet, “Thank you… for… everything.” The hesitation in his words makes your chest tighten, that quiet vulnerability mixed with desire.

You give him a small, almost imperceptible smile before moving to the counter to grab your phone. “I’ll let you out,” you murmur, still feeling the warmth between you linger. He stands slowly, hands brushing briefly over yours as he goes to the door, and you catch the small, shy smile that tugs at his lips. He hesitates with his hand on the knob, just long enough that the pause feels like it stretches between you. You catch the hesitation, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, stepping closer, stopping him mid-motion. “Wanna… watch a movie or something? Keep the night going a little?”

His eyes flick up at you, wide and slightly incredulous, like he can’t believe you’re asking. That shy, awkward smile tugs at his lips, still soft, still hesitant, but the daze in his eyes deepens. “Uh… yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, barely above a whisper, as if testing the waters.

You nod, satisfied, stepping aside so he can close the door behind him properly. “Good,” you say, a little teasing in your tone. “I’ll grab more pillows.”

He exhales slowly, relief and quiet anticipation written all over him, cheeks still pink, hands brushing lightly over his pants as if trying to ground himself. You can feel the tension of the night lingering between you, the heat of what just happened still pulsing, and now… a new layer of anticipation has been added- this time, with him staying, unsure but willing, and you firmly in control of the tempo.

You settle onto the couch, the cushions shifting under you as you make yourself comfortable, Drew sinking in beside you. The soft glow of the TV illuminates the room, the previews and trailers flickering across his face. He’s still tense- shoulders a little tight, hands fidgeting in his lap, like the aftermath of earlier hasn’t quite settled in him yet.

You glance at him, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “You… tense after all that?” you murmur lightly, brushing a stray curl from your face. The tone is teasing, not mocking, but enough to draw a soft, embarrassed laugh from him.

“Maybe a little,” he admits quietly, almost sheepishly, eyes flicking toward you before he looks back at the screen. You can tell he’s trying to act casual, like it’s no big deal, but his fingers are still clenching slightly.

You shift closer, letting your knee lightly brush his, the contact deliberate but casual. “Relax,” you whisper, voice low. “You’re allowed to just… exist for a minute.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally, and for a beat he just sits there, watching the movie like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, without a word, his hand drifts over and settles over yours.

You freeze for just a second, blinking down at your fingers now entwined with his. His thumb brushes softly over your hand in a slow, steady rhythm. You glance up at him, expecting maybe a shy glance or an awkward grin- instead, he just smiles at you, casual, easy, like it’s no big deal, before returning his attention to the flickering images on the screen.

You stare at him for a beat, a little dumbfounded. Weird… but okay, you think, letting out a quiet huff of laughter and squeezing his hand lightly in response. You lean back into the couch, letting yourself settle into the warmth of him next to you, hand in hand, letting the movie be background to the comfortable, teasing tension that still hums between you.

Even as the trailers roll, your mind can’t help but wander to the way he just casually held your hand, the subtle mix of shyness and confidence in him, and you realize… this push-pull between you isn’t going to end anytime soon.

-

The movie drones on quietly in the background, the room dim except for the flickering light of the screen. Your hand is still loosely wrapped in his, though you notice he’s grown quieter, his shoulders sagging slightly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you realize he’s drifted off- his head tilting a little toward the couch, eyes closed, breath steady and soft.

A small smile tugs at your lips. He looks… peaceful, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten just a little. Carefully, so as not to wake him, you slide your fingers out of his hand, letting them rest gently on the arm of the couch for a moment before pulling a soft throw blanket from the back of the couch.

You drape it over him slowly, smoothing it down across his shoulders. His hand twitches slightly as the warmth touches him, and his eyes flutter open, blinking blearily into the low light.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice thick with sleep.

You lean down just a little, brushing his cheek with your thumb. “Shh… go back to sleep,” you whisper, voice low, almost a lullaby. “It’s late. You don’t have to stay awake.”

He hesitates, gaze searching yours for a beat, lips parting as if to argue, but the heaviness of his eyelids wins. With a soft, almost imperceptible nod, he relaxes again into the couch, tucking himself a little deeper under the blanket.

You shift beside him, careful not to disturb him, and rest your hand lightly on his arm for a moment before letting it fall to your lap. Watching him breathe steadily, you feel a quiet warmth spread through you- the closeness, the trust, the simple softness of the moment.

For the first time since the night began, the world feels like it’s slowed down, and you let yourself just… exist here, in this calm, quietly intimate space with him.

-

You stir awake, the pale pre-dawn light spilling softly through the blinds. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the gentle rise and fall of Drew’s chest next to you. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you just watch him, the small rise and fall of his chest, the way he looks almost impossibly relaxed despite everything that happened the night before.

Then reality hits- or at least, the version you’re willing to admit to yourself. You have “work” in a couple of hours. Slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him, you shift, gently untangling yourself from his side. He groans softly in his sleep, half-turning toward you, but doesn’t wake fully.

You clear your throat awkwardly. “Uh… hey,” you whisper, voice low. He blinks once, then rubs his eyes, hair mussed in every direction, before sitting up groggily. “I… I should probably get going. I, uh… have work soon.”

He quirks an eyebrow, half-smile tugging at his lips, clearly unconvinced. “Work, huh?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “At five a.m.? That’s… ambitious.”

You bite your lip, shrugging sheepishly. “Yeah… deadlines… stuff.”

He chuckles softly, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “Right,” he says, giving you a knowing look. Despite the tease in his tone, he’s gracious, getting up slowly and pulling on his jacket.

You hover near the door, awkwardly shuffling your feet. “So… can I see you again?” he asks quietly, stopping just inside the doorway. His eyes search yours, sincere, gentle, the shy-but-considerate energy still there.

You grin, leaning casually against the doorframe, trying to keep it light. “Yeah… but, uh,” you tease, lifting a finger, “no more movies. Too dangerous for my productivity.”

He laughs softly, and the sound warms the apartment in a way that makes you pause for a moment. “No movies,” he agrees, a subtle grin tugging at his lips. “Then what are we doing next time?”

You shrug, smirking. “We’ll figure it out. Something… fun. Or maybe… more of this,” you say, nodding toward the couch behind him, voice trailing teasingly.

He gives a small, amused groan, shaking his head as he finally steps toward the door. “Okay. I’ll hold you to that,” he murmurs, soft and low, before hesitantly leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “See you soon, yeah?”

You nod, trying not to grin like an idiot, and watch him leave. As soon as the door clicks shut, you sink against it, a small laugh escaping your lips, heart still racing despite the hour. The apartment feels too quiet without him, and you know… you’re already looking forward to the next time.

-

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you slightly- it’s early, too early for anything besides caffeine and regrets, but the name on the screen makes your chest skip a beat.

Drew S

You answer, voice still thick with sleep. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, casual but soft, like he’s grinning even though you can’t see him. There’s a brief pause, and then he chuckles low. “I just… wanted to say I really enjoyed last night.”

You smirk immediately, tilting your head as you lean back against the counter. “All of last night?” you tease, voice dripping with amusement.

There’s a faint laugh on the other end, a little breathless, and you can hear him shift uncomfortably. “Yeah… all of it,” he admits, a little flustered. “You… you’re incredible.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing outright, the satisfaction of hearing him so flustered warming you. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, letting the silence linger for just a second before changing the subject, playful. “So… what’s the plan now? You gonna stalk me all day, or are we plotting our next hangout?”

He chuckles again, deeper this time, recovering some of his cool. “Well… I was thinking… dinner? Or an arcade. I figured I’d let you choose this time.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to grin too much. “An arcade? Really? You trying to make me beat you at skee-ball?”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice low but amused. “Maybe I just want to see that competitive streak of yours. Or we could keep it low-key with dinner. Your call.”

You tap your fingers against your lips, pretending to think hard. “Hmm… tough choice.”

He hums, waiting patiently, and you can hear the faint grin in his voice. “Take your time,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind. I can… wait.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a small warmth in your chest at how patient and soft-spoken he still is, even after last night. “Fine,” you finally answer, teasing in just the right way. “But I’m warning you- arcade, I’ll demolish you.”

“Challenge accepted,” he says immediately, a hint of laughter creeping in. “Dinner, arcade… whatever you want, just say when. I’ll make it happen.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Okay… I’ll let you know. But seriously, last night was… fun. Don’t get too cocky.”

“Noted,” he mutters, voice low and amused. “Noted.”

You hang up with a small, satisfied grin, already imagining the push-pull tension that’s about to start all over again- and secretly hoping it never ends.

-

The week drags on in a blur of errands, work, and whatever small distractions you can find. Normally, you’d be fine flying solo for a few days, but this week feels heavier. Your phone sits beside you, quiet, no texts, no calls. You know he’s filming- long hours, early mornings, late nights- but it doesn’t make the absence sting any less.

By Wednesday, you catch yourself glancing at your phone more than usual, thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. It’s not even real longing yet, just a faint ache, the kind that makes you notice the little things- like the corner of the couch he leans against when he’s trying to act casual, or the way his lips curl when he laughs at something small, private. You try to shove it down, tell yourself he’s busy, that you’re fine, that you don’t need him blowing up your phone just to validate the little spark between you two.

But by Thursday afternoon, boredom has taken over. You’re sprawled on your couch, flipping through channels, absent-mindedly scrolling social media, when the emptiness of your apartment hits differently. The echo of Sunday -the movie, the teasing, the way he’d fall asleep with his hand in yours- starts creeping into your mind.

You bite your lip, almost laughing at yourself. You’re missing him, and you didn’t even realize it until this exact second. Not in a desperate way, not even in a need-to-call-him-now way- but enough that your chest feels a little warmer when you imagine his soft, teasing voice, his shy smiles, the way he’d lock eyes with you just to make you squirm a little.

You glance at your phone again, debating. You could text, just a small, teasing message- something that won’t make you look needy, just enough to remind him that you exist. Something playful. Something like…

You:So… are you busy or just ignoring me?

You laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head. Of course, it’s cheeky, not mean, not really serious- but it’s enough to make your stomach flutter at the thought of him reading it, maybe grinning, maybe flushing a little, maybe trying to figure out how to respond without losing his chill demeanor.

You hit send before thinking twice. And now the waiting begins- the kind of waiting that’s equal parts exciting and torturous, because you know he’ll respond eventually. He always does. And in the meantime… you can’t help replaying his soft, subtle dominance in your mind, how easy he makes everything feel even when he’s trying not to show it, and how much you’re already craving him again.

Minutes later, you’re lounging on your couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone finally buzzes. The screen flashes Drew S., and for a second, your stomach does that little flip. You bite your lip, hesitating, and then swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, deliberately nonchalant, tugging a loose curl behind your ear. You don’t let your voice carry the warmth you feel, even though you’re itching to.

“Hey.” His voice comes through, low and casual, like he’s just leaning back somewhere, but you catch the faint surprise underneath- he wasn’t expecting you to text after a week of radio silence. “I got your text.”

“Mm,” you hum, playing it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal that you’d missed him. “Thought I’d reach out. See what you’re up to.”

There’s a brief pause. You hear him shift, maybe leaning forward, maybe just thinking, then a small laugh. “Honestly? Not much. Filming, you know… but I was thinking about you.”

You suppress the little smile that wants to escape. “Mhm. Busy week, I’m sure.” You’re careful, casual, brushing past the edge of curiosity and desire.

“Yeah, busy,” he says, a note of shyness creeping in, like he’s still trying to hold onto that calm demeanor you love. “But I was hoping… maybe we could hang again soon. Not just… you know, movies.”

You pause, letting it hang. “Oh? And what did you have in mind?” You’re intentionally vague, letting the conversation tease itself out.

“Well…” he starts, then hesitates. “Maybe dinner, or… an arcade? Your choice.”

“Huh, I forgot about the arcade” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider. “I haven’t been to one in years. Are you sure you’re ready to lose badly?”

He laughs softly, the sound low and warm. “I think I can handle it. But… maybe I need some coaching. From you.”

You tap your fingers on the arm of the couch, letting him wait a beat. “I’ll think about it.” You give a small, teasing pause before finally adding, “Saturday work for you?”

“Saturday’s good,” he replies immediately, like he’d been hoping you’d pick that day. “I can make it anytime. You pick the time.”

You hum, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “Let’s say seven.”

“Perfect,” he says, voice soft, just a hint of that flustered, shy energy you love. “Looking forward to it.”

“Mm.” You hum again, brushing your hair back and standing to refill your water glass. “Me too… I guess.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound low, like he’s holding himself together. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”

You hang up, placing your phone down as though it were no big deal. But your heart is still racing a little, and your mind won’t stop replaying his voice, the way he said your name, the way he’s still this careful, shy, soft dominance that drives you wild.

You settle back onto the couch, pretending to scroll through social media, but your thoughts are entirely elsewhere-counting down to Saturday, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to play it cool.

-

Saturday rolls around faster than you expect, and you’re standing in front of your mirror, twisting slightly as you check yourself from every angle. You settle on low-waisted, slightly distressed jeans that hug your hips and a soft, cropped baby tee that leaves just a hint of skin exposed. Nothing overdone- just easy, casual, and the kind of outfit that says “effortless” without trying too hard.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Drew.

Drew S: I’m on my way. See you in a few.

You smile faintly, swiping it away as you grab your bag. You weren’t expecting him to insist on picking you up, but part of you likes it- likes that he’s calm, deliberate, and clearly enjoys the idea of being the one to come for you.

Minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hair casually, and open it. He’s there, standing in that effortlessly put-together way that makes your stomach do a little flip: jeans, a fitted white tee, leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says, low and calm, giving off that chill, soft-spoken energy that you’ve grown to love. He leans slightly forward, like he’s keeping the moment intimate even at your doorway.

“Hey,” you reply, stepping up on your toes just a little and throwing your arms around him in a quick hug. Before he can fully react, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then the smallest smile curls at the corner of his lips.

“Wow… didn’t expect that,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual, just a little caught off guard, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes you think he likes it- maybe more than he’s letting on.

You shrug innocently, stepping back with a grin. “I’m full of surprises.”

He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, the motion calm but clearly betraying a little fluster. “Yeah… I can see that.” His hands remain tucked in his pockets, but his eyes linger on you, scanning you up and down, subtle but attentive.

“Ready to go?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, that controlled calm returning. “Let’s roll.”

The drive is easy, casual conversation sprinkled with small laughs, but beneath it, there’s that unspoken tension- the pull between you, the curiosity, the awareness of what the other does to you. By the time you pull up to the arcade, your stomach is buzzing in anticipation, and you realize just how much you’ve missed the thrill of being around him, even when he’s calm and collected.

The arcade lights hit you first- flashing, neon, chaotic in the best way. You step out of the car and pull the door open for him, letting him walk in first. He’s calm, hands still in his pockets, but there’s a subtle tension in his shoulders that betrays him. He glances back at you with that soft, unreadable gaze, and you feel your pulse pick up, like your chest remembers exactly why he has this effect on you.

“Wow,” you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than him, eyes sweeping over the games and the scent of popcorn and soda in the air.

He smirks faintly, letting you take it all in. “First time in one of these in a while?” His voice is low, casual, soft.

You shake your head, turning toward him, pretending to look around but really letting your eyes scan him- how relaxed he looks, that subtle curve of his jaw, the way the light catches the edge of his leather jacket. Your lips press together lightly. You’ll keep it to yourself.

“Not for a while. But I’m competitive,” you tease lightly, nudging his shoulder with yours as you pass.

He chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach twist in a good way. “Oh, yeah? Confident you can beat me?”

“Absolutely. But you won’t see it coming,” you reply, ducking under the neon glow, letting your voice drop just a little as if you’re making a silent challenge.

You make your way to the bar area first, ordering two drinks. The bartender hands you a fruity cocktail -something red and sweet- and Drew gets a darker, stronger drink, amber with ice clinking softly. You take a sip of yours, the cold burning just enough to make you shiver.

“Cheers,” you say, holding your glass up toward him, eyes meeting his briefly. He touches your glass with his lightly, just enough, with that small smirk he always wears when he’s amused.

“Cheers,” he echoes, voice low, smooth.

You take a small sip, pretending to focus on your drink while sneaking glances at him. He’s just… watching the room, casual, but every now and then his eyes flick to you, soft, attentive, like he’s waiting for a move only you know he wants.

“Let’s see about that skee-ball game,” he says, nodding toward the nearest game, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, teasing grin.

“Is that a challenge?” you raise an eyebrow, walking over and setting your drink onto the counter. “Because I accept all challenges.”

He tilts his head, that calm, easy confidence still there, though his jaw tightens just slightly. “Good. I like a girl who plays hard.”

You glance at him, smirk teasing, eyes drinking him in quickly before looking back at the game. Underneath that calm, soft-spoken exterior, you see it- the tension, the subtle thrill. And damn, he’s hot. So hot. But you don’t say a word. You just keep the teasing playful, letting it linger in the air like a dare.

He rolls up his sleeves casually and lines up his first shot at the skee-ball machine. “You’re going first,” he says, letting his voice drop just a hair lower, like he’s letting you take the lead.

You step up, grip the ball, and glance over your shoulder at him, smirk playing on your lips. “You sure you’re ready?”

His eyes meet yours briefly, warm, soft, a little daring, and he shrugs almost nonchalantly. “I’m always ready.”

And that’s when the night begins- the teasing, the challenge, the subtle touches, and the way the arcade lights seem to catch him in just the right way every time you look at him. You’re both laughing, flirting silently, the drinks making you bolder, the games giving you an excuse to brush against him or catch his glance in a way that feels electric, without him or anyone else saying a word.

Moments later you wander over to the basketball arcade game mostly out of curiosity, not confidence. The balls are oversized, the hoop looks deceptively far away, and the timer flashes like it’s already judging you.

“Oh no,” you laugh under your breath, rolling one of the balls between your palms. “This is a terrible idea.”

Drew steps up beside you, amused immediately as he swipes the game card. “You don’t play?”

You shoot him a look. “I don’t even watch.”

The buzzer goes off before he can respond, the timer starting its aggressive countdown. You panic just a little, tossing the first ball far too short. It bounces off the rim and ricochets back into the narrow pit.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “I look ridiculous.”

He laughs softly, not teasing- fond. “Okay, okay. Hold on.” He smiles, sitting his drink down.

Before you can protest, he steps closer. Not just beside you- behind you. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you feel anything else. His chest hovers just shy of your back, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how small the space is.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low, calm, right near your ear. “You’re rushing it.”

His hands come to your waist briefly -quick, respectful, like he’s checking himself- then settle again, more confidently this time, thumbs resting at your hips like he’s grounding you. It sends a jolt straight through you, sharp and unexpected, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your composure.

“Bend your knees a little,” he says, breath warm against your neck. “Yeah. Like that.”

You nod, swallowing hard, trying very hard to focus on the game instead of the way his voice drops when he’s this close, or how easily he fits behind you like he belongs there.

He reaches forward, guiding your arms gently, his hands covering yours just long enough to show you the motion. His fingers are warm. Steady. Everything about him feels deliberate.

“Don’t throw it,” he murmurs. “Just… push.”

You do- and the ball actually goes in.

You gasp, laughing. “Wait- did you see that?”

He chuckles softly, closer now, his mouth near your ear. “Told you.”

Another ball. Another shot. This one hits the rim but drops through anyway. The timer is still counting down, the sounds of the arcade buzzing around you, but it all fades into background noise. All you can feel is him- his hands briefly returning to your hips, the brush of his jacket against your back, the way he leans in without quite touching.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low in a way that surprises you with its intensity. You straighten just a fraction, forcing yourself to breathe normally, to look casual- even though your pulse is racing.

“You’re doing great,” he adds quietly, almost like it’s just for you.

The buzzer goes off before you’re ready for it to end. You step forward instinctively, breaking the contact, turning to face him with a smile that you hope looks playful instead of affected.

“Beginner’s luck,” you say lightly, though your voice feels just a touch breathless.

He looks at you for a moment -really looks- eyes a little darker than before, expression soft but unreadable. Then he smiles, easy again, like he hasn’t just been standing impossibly close to you.

“Or maybe you’re just a natural,” he says.

You laugh it off, grabbing your drink, but your hands feel warm and your heart is still beating too fast.

And you know -he knows- that something shifted just now.

He glances down at the scoreboard, then back at you, grin easy and boyish like he’s still riding the high of standing behind you.

“Okay,” he says, nodding toward the row of machines. “Redemption round? Or maybe something you’re actually good at this time?”

You take a sip of your drink, eyes lingering on him longer than necessary. There’s something different now- less teasing, more intent. You can still feel his hands on your hips if you think about it long enough.

You tilt your head slightly. “Actually…”

He pauses, attention sharpening immediately. “Yeah?”

You step a little closer, lowering your voice- not secretive, just deliberate. Like you’ve already decided.

“Would it be weird if we just… went back to your place?”

The question hangs between you, heavier than the arcade noise, heavier than the music and the laughter and the clatter of machines. For half a second, he just looks at you- processing, recalibrating.

Then his eyebrows lift, surprised but unmistakably pleased.

“Uh,” he lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. No, that wouldn’t be weird.”

You watch him closely as he adds, carefully, “I mean- only if that’s what you want.”

You shrug, casual again, even though your pulse jumps. “Sounds better than losing another game.”

That gets a real smile out of him- soft, a little dazed, like he’s trying not to read too much into it.

“Okay,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as you turn to leave together, you catch the way he glances at you once more- quick, like he’s checking to make sure this is actually happening.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable way- the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward because neither of you feel the need to fill it. He navigates the suburban streets easily, headlights cutting through the early evening fog. Houses with neat lawns and warm glows in the windows slide by, grounding the scene, making it feel almost ordinary… except for the electricity crackling in the car between you.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the slight way his jaw tightens when he concentrates, or the way he hums along softly to a song on the radio without thinking. It’s subtle, but it makes your stomach twist in anticipation.

When he pulls into his driveway, the car’s engine clicks off. You both sit for a moment, letting the tension stretch just a little longer.

“You wanna come in?” he asks, voice casual, like he isn’t thinking about the obvious reason you’re both here.

“Yeah,” you say, already unlocking your side.

The house is warm, lived-in but clean, the kind of place that feels inviting without being staged. You take a small tour in your head as you step in, letting yourself relax slightly, like you belong there- even if only temporarily.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter and heading for the cabinet. A second later, you hear the clink of glasses.

He returns with two short glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Thought we could start with something small,” he says, sitting back on the edge of the couch and holding a glass out to you.

You take it, letting your fingers brush his just slightly, and nod. “Perfect.”

You sink down into the couch, crossing your legs under you. He sits a little apart but close enough that you can feel his presence, the warmth radiating from his side. You raise your glass briefly. “Cheers,” you murmur, letting the whiskey burn as it slides down.

He smirks, letting his gaze linger on you for just a beat too long. “Cheers,” he says, voice low, calm, but with a weight you can feel in your chest.

You take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in. For a few minutes, you talk about nothing important- music, a random TV show, the absurdity of the arcade. You’re laughing softly, letting the conversation drift, but every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand across the couch fabric reminds you both why you’re really here.

At one point, you tilt your head, watching him with a little smirk. “You know,” you say, voice teasing but soft, “we could just skip all the small talk if you wanted.”

He raises an eyebrow, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “And do what exactly?” he asks, still keeping his composure, still calm- but you catch that quick flicker of want in his eyes.

You shrug, casual, playful. “You tell me.”

He leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, hands loosely wrapped around his glass. The subtle shift in his posture is enough- there’s anticipation there, restraint, but you can feel the undercurrent of him already imagining what’s next.

You take another sip, slow, deliberate, letting the tension hang in the air. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the whiskey warm your hands and the quiet stretch between you. Both of you know what’s coming- but for now, it’s just the two of you, the soft clink of glasses, and the unspoken agreement hanging heavier than words ever could.

You shift on the couch, letting the warmth of the whiskey settle in your chest, and slowly, deliberately, you slide closer to him. Before he can react, you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of him, hands brushing his shoulders as you lean in. Your lips hover just above his, teasing, soft, inviting.

He doesn’t move forward. Instead, his hands find your hips, steadying you, but not in the same urgent way you’d expected. You catch the hesitation in his chest against yours, the slight tension under your thighs. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts back just enough to create space, his hands holding your hips- not pushing you away, but steadying you. His voice is low, calm, gentle.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your side, “we don’t have to do this right now.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Don’t want to?” you tease lightly, though the heat in your chest tells you it’s more than that.

“I do,” he admits, voice almost a whisper, “I just… I like being with you, and I don’t want this to be only that.”

You pause, caught in the shift- the way he says it, soft and deliberate, the kind of restraint that makes your stomach coil. You catch the faint blush in his cheeks, the tiny part of him that wants to give in, but doesn’t.

He leans back slightly, enough to guide your hips down, and offers a crooked smile. “How about we just… watch a movie or something first?”

You let out a breath, half-laughing, half-sighing, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Movie, huh? Keeping it classy?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’ve got time for everything else later.”

And just like that, the heat isn’t completely gone -it lingers, thick and delicious- but now it’s layered with a tease of anticipation. He’s close, present, intoxicating, and he’s making you wait… carefully, deliberately, like he’s savoring more than just the physical.

You settle into him anyway, arms around his neck, leaning against him as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. He’s restrained, but it’s impossible to ignore the tension humming between you both, the unspoken promise that the night isn’t over- just… paused.

You pull back slightly, letting out a soft huff as you slide off his lap and settle back onto the couch next to him. You don’t say it, but the small crease in your brow and the little roll of your eyes say it all- this wasn’t supposed to be a lovey-dovey evening. You just wanted the heat, the friction, the rush of him. Not… whatever this is.

He glances at you, just briefly, catching the shift in your energy, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he reaches for the remote, flipping through options with calm, deliberate movements, as if the tension between you is just another layer of the evening’s entertainment. His focus is on the screen, but his presence is heavy, magnetic, almost like a gentle weight you can’t shake.

You reach for your phone, sliding your thumb over the screen. A small plan hatches in your mind, something to distract yourself from the momentarily complicated vibe. You quickly type a message to Yasmine:

You: Call me in like, five minutes. Say you have an emergency. Please.

You set the phone down just as Drew glances your way, his eyebrows slightly raised but his lips tugging at a quiet smile. He doesn’t say anything, just leans back, letting the silence stretch between you as you tuck your legs under yourself.

You pick up your phone again, pretending to scroll through something urgent while sneaking peeks at him. He’s flipping through the streaming menu like he’s carefully deciding what you’ll both “enjoy” tonight, but his shoulders are relaxed, his body language soft. There’s a tension there too, the kind that simmers quietly after what you two already shared, but it’s controlled- he’s controlled.

You glance over at him, catching him in the corner of your eye, and bite back a smile. He’s so calm, so impossibly composed, and yet you can feel the pull of him, the warmth lingering from earlier. It’s frustrating and enticing all at once.

Then your phone buzzes. Yasmine’s calling. You answer, murmuring a quiet, “Hello?” and let her drag you into her “emergency,” all the while keeping one eye on Drew. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask, just watches, letting you run the show- but there’s a flicker in his eyes, a hint of curiosity, of mild amusement, that makes your chest tighten.

You sit up, letting the tension melt into quiet mischief. You’re annoyed, slightly, that the night took a softer turn than you wanted- but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it. You turn towards him, hand brushing against his shoulder as you keep your focus split between the fake emergency call and the man next to you, and for a moment, it’s exactly what you wanted: him close, alive, teasing, but not overbearing.

You tug your phone away from your ear and give Yasmine a quick nod though she can’t see you. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” you say, voice calm but a little clipped, already slipping into your jacket as you stand.

Drew watches silently, leaning back against the couch with his usual cool posture, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders that betrays him- just a little.

“You want me to drive you?” he asks casually, though his tone carries that quiet, subtle hopefulness he can’t quite hide.

You shake your head, looping your bag over your shoulder. “Nah, I’ll grab an Uber. Shouldn’t be long.”

He exhales softly, almost a sigh, eyes flicking down to the floor for a second before returning to you. “Right… yeah, okay.” There’s a small crease between his brows, the barest hint of disappointment tugging at his expression. You know exactly what it is- and he knows you know.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmurs quietly as he stands with you, voice low, almost reverent. “If you wanted more tonight.”

You shrug, keeping your face neutral, voice casual. “Nah, it’s fine. I just… gotta help her, that’s all.”

But both of you know it’s a lie. You’re leaving because he didn’t let the night go the way you wanted it to go. He wanted more than a hookup, and you… well, you weren’t ready to give that to him tonight.

Drew steps closer, just a little, the distance between you charged but respectful. “I get it,” he says softly, eyes meeting yours. “I really do. I just…  I think we should try-”

You cut him off with a small smile, light and teasing, though there’s a hint of truth in it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” You turn slightly, moving toward the door, keeping your voice easy, brushing past him just enough to remind him you’re in control of the night’s ending.

He watches you go, silent for a beat, before nodding, letting you take the lead. There’s a softness in his expression, a mix of longing and respect that doesn’t need words. You both know the truth, but neither says it aloud.

As the door clicks shut behind you, you can almost feel him exhale from the other side. And even as you step outside and get into your Uber, you can’t shake the little twist in your chest- part satisfaction, part frustration, part anticipation for the next time you’ll see him.

The Uber ride is quiet. You stare out the window at the blur of streetlights, trying to untangle your thoughts. Part of you is still buzzing from the night -the whiskey, the closeness, the tension- but another part is nagging at you: guilt, because he knows exactly why you left when you did.

When you finally reach your apartment, you slip inside quickly, setting your bag down and sinking into the couch. The door clicks softly behind you, and your phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s him. You swipe to answer, nerves twisting just a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm but threaded with concern.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“You okay? How’s your friend?” There’s genuine care in his tone, the kind of soft attention that makes your chest tighten.

“She’s fine now,” you reply, keeping it short. “All good. Nothing major.” You don’t go into detail- you don’t want him to dig into the faked emergency, not right now.

There’s a pause. Then he says, quietly, almost shyly, “I… had a really great time tonight.”

You glance down at your hands, picking at the edge of the couch cushion. “Mm.” You don’t say yes. You don’t disagree either.

“Hey,” he continues softly, “I’m sorry if I made it feel like I was only into this.… for one thing.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t. Really.”

Another pause, the line carrying the weight of unsaid things. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Good. I just… wanted you to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” you reply, voice quieter now, reflective.

And just like that, you both hang up. The apartment is still and quiet around you, and the realization sinks in: you feel… shitty. Not about him -he’s genuinely kind, respectful, the kind of person who makes you feel seen even when you’re holding back- but about yourself. About how you pushed, pulled, and left things unfinished because you weren’t ready to let the night mean anything more than… what you wanted it to mean.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling, chest tightening. It wasn’t a bad night. It was… complicated. And now, alone, you have to wrestle with that little sting in your chest: wanting him, knowing he’s good for you, and also being stubborn enough not to let yourself say it out loud.

-

The apartment smells faintly of takeout and candles as you slump onto the couch, a glass of red wine in your hand. Your friends are sprawled across the living room -half on the floor, half on the other couch- giggling over some nonsense on TikTok. You take a slow sip, letting the warmth of the wine hit your belly, though it barely masks the gnawing irritation that’s been building all week.

It’s been a week and a half since the last time you’ve spoken to Drew. A week and a half. And while part of you is annoyed that he hasn’t reached out -you’re not even sure why you’re annoyed, exactly- another part of you is tense, restless, missing him in ways you won’t admit even to yourself. And if that wasn’t enough, your period’s making every little thing sharper, every wine sip burn a little hotter, every teasing glance from your friends a little more pointed.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Clarissa says suddenly, stretching out on the floor. She tilts her wine glass toward you with a grin. “Something wrong, or are you just… pouting like a baby?”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not pouting.”

“Oh, come on,” Yasmine laughs, plopping down next to you with her glass in hand. “Don’t act like we don’t know you. You’ve been… grumpy all week. And what’s with that face?” She leans closer, squinting like she’s inspecting a crime scene.

You shrug, taking another sip of your wine, trying to look casual. “I’m just… tired.”

“Tired?” Clarissa snorts. “You’re not tired. You’re missing someone. Admit it.”

You glance at them, lips pressed together, pretending to think. “Mm… maybe I’m just… appreciating the drama of wine and friends?”

Yasmine laughs, nudging your arm. “Yeah, sure. If by chaos you mean your sulking about a certain Drew Starkey, then yeah, totally drama.”

You groan, rolling onto your side dramatically, a hand pressed to your forehead. “I’m not missing him,” you mumble, even though a small pang of longing tightens in your chest. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t say it.”

Clarissa smirks, giving you a pointed look. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you keep checking your phone every five minutes, huh?”

You bite your lip, wine glass hovering mid-air. They notice. They always notice. You swish the wine around in your glass to distract yourself -and them- from the truth: that even though he hasn’t reached out, even though your period’s making everything sharper, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his voice, the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel simultaneously frustrated and… something else.

Yasmine leans in closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Honestly, we should just call him. Make him sweat a little. I mean, you’re clearly suffering over there.”

“Yeah,” Clarissa adds, grinning wickedly. “Send him a little reminder that you exist. Make him miss you for a change.”

You roll your eyes, swirling your wine, trying to act indifferent, but the faintest smirk tugs at your lips. Maybe… maybe just a little.

-

The door clicks behind her friends as they leave, their laughter and teasing fading down the hallway. You slump onto the couch, the apartment suddenly quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. The wine glasses are cleared, but the warmth of the night -and the lingering buzz of your mood- remains. You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. 

You: Hey. 

Simple. Minimal. Safe. You hit send and set the phone down, half-expecting nothing.

But a second later, your phone rings. You glance at the screen.

Drew S

“Hello?” you answer, trying to sound casual, though your chest is tightening.

“Hey,” he says, calm, steady, almost gentle- but the seriousness under his tone makes your stomach twist. “I… saw your message.”

You hum, nervously twisting your hair around your finger. “Yeah… just wanted to say hi.”

A pause stretches across the line. Then he sighs, low and deliberate, like he’s been holding something in for a while. “Look… I didn’t reach out sooner because I wasn’t sure where we stood after the other night. I didn’t want to assume anything, and I didn’t want to… bother you if you weren’t feeling the same.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off-guard. He’s not joking, not teasing. He’s steady. Serious. Your stomach knots.

“I like you,” he says finally, clearly, directly. “I like spending time with you, the way you make me feel… and I’m looking for something real. Something… serious.”

You shift on the couch, silence stretching in the empty apartment.

“But I also need to be honest with myself,” he continues, voice calm but firm. “I’m not going to be the person you call when you’re bored or lonely, or just looking for a hookup. That’s not fair to either of us. If that’s all you want, I need to know now, so I can find someone who’s actually looking for the same thing I am.”

You’re quiet, frozen. This isn’t what you were expecting. You thought maybe he’d text back casually, flirt a little- but not this. Not intention. Not boundaries.

“I-” you start, then stop, realizing there’s nothing to argue with. He’s laid it out, sharp and real and somehow… intimidating.

“Take your time,” he adds softly, letting the silence stretch between you. “But I needed to say it. I can’t just… wait around wondering if we’re on the same page.”

You close your mouth, blinking down at the phone. Words fail you. You hadn’t expected to be met with honesty like this, clear and deliberate, especially in the quiet of your empty apartment.

Finally, he exhales. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Talk soon?”

“Yeah…” you whisper, still at a loss for words. You hang up, thumb hovering over the screen for another message, but you don’t type. The apartment is still, except for the soft hum outside, and your thoughts are spinning. One thing is certain: this conversation just changed everything.

The apartment is quiet, the soft hum of the city outside the windows the only sound. You flop back against the couch, arms tucked behind your head, and stare at the ceiling. Your friends’ laughter has faded, and now the emptiness of your place feels heavier, almost deafening.

You replay the conversation with Drew in your head, word by word. How calm he sounded, how sure, how impossibly sincere. How he didn’t just say he liked you -he made it clear he wanted more than casual, more than late-night messiness. The boundaries? That hit you harder than you expected. Not because it was a threat, but because it showed he valued himself -and you- enough to be honest.

Your stomach twists with that familiar pull: a mix of longing, guilt, and the tiniest flutter of excitement. You realize you miss him. Not just the sex, not just the adrenaline of sneaking around or the thrill of a late-night hookup- but him. His voice. His presence. The way he looks at you when he’s trying not to look at you too much.

Your phone rests on the coffee table, screen dark. You stare at it, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You could wait, play it cool, let him think you’re uninterested… but the thought of him waiting, wondering where you stand, makes your chest tighten. You bite your lip, exhale slowly, and finally pick it up.

Okay, you tell yourself. Just say it. Don’t overthink.

You type, slowly at first, each letter deliberate:

You: I like you too.

You reread it, heart hammering in your chest. Short. Simple. True. No games. No teasing. Just you finally being honest, letting him know that, despite your usual push-and-pull energy, the feeling is mutual.

You hit send and set the phone down, staring at the ceiling again. The hum outside the window feels softer now, more comforting. And somewhere deep down, you can’t help the small, satisfied smile curling at your lips.

Allegra and Noel are already seated at a circular table near the windows, two empty chairs waiting across from them. Allegra’s sunglasses are perched dramatically on her head like she might be photographed at any moment. Noel sits with her hands wrapped around a glass of water, posture neat, eyes scanning the room.

Beau hesitates near the entrance, scanning the restaurant. “He’s not here yet,” he mutters.

“Good,” Becca says. “We didn’t come all this way for you to immediately get kidnapped.”

You smile faintly as Beau reluctantly chooses a nearby table instead- close enough to yours to see, close enough that Becca could realistically leap to his defense if needed- not that she was big enough to do so. He drops into the chair, phone back out in his hand.

“I’ll give him fifteen minutes,” he says.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Becca fires back.

You and Becca head for Allegra and Noel. The moment Allegra spots you, everything changes.

She gasps loudly and shoves her chair back with zero shame. “Oh. My. God-”

Noel stands at the same time, smiling like she’s afraid she might cry. They both rush you at once, wrapping their arms around you like time never passed at all. You laugh softly into the space between them, shoulders relaxing for the first time since you set foot back in the city.

This- this feeling of being loved out loud. Of being welcomed without condition. It settles somewhere deep in your chest. And still, quietly, there’s that familiar ache beneath it- the knowledge of whose love you wish you were feeling like this from.

They pull back, and Allegra immediately drops her gaze to your stomach. “Officially the hottest mom ever,” she declares.

Noel nods earnestly. “You really are glowing.”

You laugh, cheeks warming as your hand drifts instinctively to your belly. Becca drops into her chair beside you with a huff.

“Don’t hype her too much,” Becca warns. “She’s fragile.”

Allegra smirks. “Please. She’s thriving.”

Across the restaurant, you spot Beau still watching the door, phone in hand- waiting on a future that hasn’t quite arrived yet. By the time all four of you finally slow down from catching up on each other’s lives -everyone’s stories loud, overlapping, full of movement- your breakfast arrives, carried out in warm, fragrant waves. Two -yes, two- plates of perfectly golden French toast are set down first, each slice thick and soft, crowned with a melting pad of butter and dusted generously with powdered sugar. Fresh strawberry slices sit vivid and red against the white. Then come the cheesy scrambled eggs, steaming and fluffy, followed by a chilled fruit bowl glistening with color. Your stomach growls before you even register it. So does the baby.

You laugh under your breath and place a hand absentmindedly over your belly as if to hush her. You force yourself to wait, polite for once, giving time for everyone’s food to arrive before you finally dig in. But the second you do? All dignity is gone. You eat like you’ve never seen food before.

Thankfully, no one judges. Or at least- they’re understanding about it. Conversation barrels on around you while you chew and chew and chew, barely acknowledged for being halfway feral.

Noel is in the middle of recounting how she recently sold a piece to “some absolute creep” who then immediately tried to hit on her and then, mid-sentence, she freezes. Her eyes flick toward the entrance. She chokes. Like, actually- chokes.

There’s a violent cough, a sharp gasp, panic tightening her face as she tries to breathe and laugh at the same time. Allegra is instantly on her feet, pounding carefully at her back while Becca shoves Noel’s water toward her and jams the straw into the cup.

“You okay?” you manage to ask, despite your cheeks being so full you feel like a literal chipmunk, eyes wide as you watch the chaos unfold.

Noel waves them off weakly as she finally gets air back into her lungs, taking a long sip of water.

“Holy shit,” she rasps once she can breathe again. “He’s hot.”

“Who?” Becca asks immediately, leaning forward like this is middle school gossip and she’s about to hear the tea.

Noel lifts one discreet finger and points toward the front door. All three of you follow the direction of her hand. You turn slowly, still chewing. And then- Oh. It’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. No- actually. Literally. He’s tall, built in that quiet, effortless way like he doesn’t even have to try. Broad shoulders under a simple fitted t-shirt, long legs in dark slacks. His hair is dark and thick, just long enough to fall forward when he moves. His features are sharp but somehow soft at the same time- strong jaw, straight nose, eyes that look like they could be kind or dangerous depending on the day. Young movie-star handsome. Like the kind of man that doesn’t look real in real life. Like he belongs on a screen, not hovering awkwardly near a hostess stand. Like a business casual Clark Kent. You realize you’ve stopped chewing. Your mouth is still completely full.

Becca sucks in a loud breath through her teeth. “Okay… wow.”

Allegra squints. “Is it illegal to be that attractive casually at breakfast?”

Noel whispers, still traumatized, “I almost died.”

Across the room, blissfully unaware of the havoc he’s causing, the man shifts his weight, scanning the restaurant like he’s looking for someone who hasn’t arrived yet. Breakfast stretches on, the initial shock dulling just enough for conversation to find its footing again. Plates clink. Coffee is refilled. The restaurant settles back into its low, ambient hum. You focus on your food. You eat slower now, one hand resting absently against your belly as the conversation drifts around you- Allegra complaining about a casting director who refused to take her dad’s bribery to get her into a film, Noel talking about a commission she might finally say yes to, Becca half-listening while scrolling through her phone.

A few minutes pass. Then chairs scrape softly against tile. You don’t look up right away. Beau’s voice reaches you first.

“My sister and her friends,” he mutters, clearly to someone beside him. That’s what makes you glance up. Beau stops at the edge of your table, one hand hooked in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the man next to him. The Clark Kent man.

“Hey,” Beau says, a little less casual than usual. “This is Jessie. Jessie Eddison. My business partner.”

Jessie steps forward with an easy smile.

“Hi,” he says. Calm. Polite. “Nice to meet you.”

He shakes Allegra’s hand, then Noel’s, then Becca’s- each interaction brief, respectful, practiced. When he turns to you, his attention doesn’t linger, but it does register. His gaze dips for the smallest fraction of a second -not long enough to feel like staring, just long enough to acknowledge your round belly- before returning to your face. You hate that you notice it. You give him your hand anyway.

“Hi,” he says again, tone unchanged.

“Hello,” you answer, equally neutral.

You pull your hand back and reach for your fork, already shifting your attention elsewhere. Jessie doesn’t comment or react, just steps back slightly, folding his hands together like he’s content to stand where he is.

“Well,” Beau says, clapping his hands once. “That’s everyone.”

Jessie smiles. “I won’t interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Allegra says automatically.

Becca shoots her a look. Jessie chuckles quietly but doesn’t move to sit. “I’ll catch you guys later.” He nods once and turns back toward Beau’s table. Conversation resumes around you almost immediately, overlapping voices filling the space he leaves behind. Noel exhales softly. Allegra leans back in her chair. Becca glances at you, searching your face. You take another bite of food, chewing slowly, letting the noise swallow the moment before it can become anything else. Across the room, Beau pulls out a chair. Jessie sits. You don’t look again.

-

After paying, the four of you stand and begin gathering your things. Chairs scrape softly against the floor, purses are slung back onto shoulders, shopping bags looped over wrists. Without thinking, your eyes flick toward Beau first- then drift to Jessie. They’re still deep in whatever conversation they’ve been having since he arrived, heads angled toward each other, bodies relaxed. It looks easy. Familiar.

As the rest of you start talking over one another -half-formed plans about walking, shopping, finding somewhere to sit- you excuse yourself and step away, heading for the restroom for the third time since you arrived.

The bathroom is quiet. Cool. You wash your hands a little longer than necessary, watching the soap swirl down the drain before reaching into your purse. When you unlock your phone, there’s a text waiting. From Rafe. Your brows knit together in surprise, but you open it anyway.

Rafe: Hey. Where are you?

You tilt your head slightly, the question sitting wrong in your chest. Why does he want to know where you are? Why now? Another message comes through before you can decide whether to respond.

Rafe: I’m sitting outside the doctor’s office. You have an appointment today…

Your jaw tightens. You type back quickly, decisively.

You: I rescheduled it. I had to go out of town for a while.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Then stop. Nothing else follows. You stare at the screen for a beat longer than you mean to, then slip your phone back into your purse and exhale, squaring your shoulders before leaving the bathroom. The girls are waiting near the door when you rejoin them, mid-conversation.

“So where are we headed next?” Allegra asks. “Shopping? Or resting y/n’s feet like responsible adults?”

“That would be nice, actually,” you say with a smile. They hadn’t seen you approach.

They laugh as Becca pushes the door open, warm summer air spilling inside and wrapping around you.

“We should do a karaoke night,” Noel says as you step out onto the sidewalk. “All of our friends. Snacks, drinks, pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good,” you blurt out without thinking, even though you just ate.

“And games,” Becca adds.

“I’ll start texting the group chat,” Allegra says, already pulling out her phone.

You glance back once, toward the restaurant now shrinking in the distance. Through the window, Beau and Jessie are still seated, likely just getting their food now. The sight passes through you without sticking. Turning back, you nudge Becca’s arm gently. “Make sure you let Beau know where we’re going.”

“He’s fine,” she says, scrolling. “He can find his way back to the hotel.”

You chuckle softly.

“Ooh- before we do that, we have to spoil y/n and the baby,” Noel gasps suddenly. Her hands find your belly before she bends down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss there.

You laugh, shaking your head, instinctively rubbing your stomach afterward. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

“We know,” Allegra says, already flagging down a car. “But this is the first baby in the friend group. She’s getting spoiled whether you like it or not.”

⸻

When you arrive at Allegra and Noel’s apartment building, nostalgia hits you harder than expected. As you wait for Noel to unlock the door, your eyes drift -unbidden- to the apartment across from theirs. Your old one.

It looks smaller than you remember. Quieter. Like something preserved behind glass. Seeing it feels like looking into a different lifetime, one you barely recognize as yours anymore. You’re pulled back to the present when the door opens and Noel steps inside. The weight of the shopping bags in your arms suddenly feels heavier, more real. You step forward anyway.

Their apartment still smells the same -cinnamon and oranges, warm and familiar- and you take a slow, steady inhale as the door closes behind you. It settles something in your chest, the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you’d been craving. Noel gently takes the shopping bags from your arms, her touch careful, considerate, and sets them down by the entryway like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“What kind of pizza are we getting?” Becca asks, already kicking off her kitten heels and padding farther inside like the place is her own.

“I was thinking cheese, pepperoni, and meat lovers,” Allegra calls out, disappearing into her bedroom. “Oh- and Sienna, Myra, Owen, Mario, and Jack are all coming.”

“Oh!” Noel perks up immediately. “We should get ice cream. Like- multiple flavors. And toppings. We can do an ice cream bar.”

The apartment hums with movement as she starts tidying instinctively. It’s colorful and lived-in- bright throw pillows, framed art, little knickknacks that feel intentional. You’re almost certain that’s Noel’s influence, and Allegra just lets it happen. After helping clean up, you and Becca decorate, stringing fairy lights across the living room and arranging bowls of candy and toppings along the table. Allegra and Noel drag the karaoke machine out of Allegra’s room, fiddling with cords until it finally connects to the TV. Soon enough, the doorbell starts ringing.

Myra and Mario arrive first, both of them lighting up the moment they see you.

“Look at the belly!” Myra squeals, voice pitching high as she steps closer.

You laugh, hugging both of them as they gush, your stomach undeniably more noticeable now- nothing dramatic, but enough to mark the passage of time.

“Hey, how’s Marie?” Mario asks once he pulls back, his hands briefly resting on your shoulders.

You pause just long enough for it to register. “Uh… I’m not sure,” you say lightly. “Maybe you should reach out and ask her?”

You do know how Marie’s doing- but him asking you instead of her feels wrong. This is your subtle nudge, and he seems to catch it, nodding thoughtfully. When he steps away, you glance over at Becca, who gives the faintest eye roll before politely greeting Myra. You clock it but let it go. You’ve learned when not to get involved.

Owen and Jack arrive next, both effortlessly good-looking. You hug Jack first -quick, warm, familiar enough- and then there’s Owen. He looks exactly the same as the last time you saw him at your engagement party. If anything, he looks even better. Relaxed. Grounded.

“Hey, you,” he says with a smile, arms opening slowly.

You don’t hesitate. You step into him, arms looping around his neck, and for a second the room disappears. You breathe in his teakwood scent, your eyes fluttering shut before you realize you’ve done it.

You both pull away quickly, laughing softly, like you’ve been caught in something unspoken.

“Look at you,” you say, resting a hand on your hip before reaching up and lacing your fingers through his hair, deliberately messing up the style he clearly worked on. “If I’m not mistaken, this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you without a camera.”

“Not so fast,” he says, grinning as he pulls a small digital camera from his pocket.

You laugh, taking it from him and flipping it over in your hands. “At least your neck can rest,” you say, biting your lip as you smile before handing it back.

“Yeah… yeah,” he trails off, then gestures vaguely toward you. Toward your stomach. “But look at you. You’re-”

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing down and rubbing your belly. The smile falters for just a second before you smooth it back into place.

“You look amazing,” he finally says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s relieved to have landed on the right words.

“Thank you, Owen.” You give him a small push, playful, affectionate.

He chuckles and moves off to join the others, already teasing Allegra, who predictably swats at him. You watch the group gather -hugging, laughing, overlapping voices- and only then do you feel Becca’s eyes on you. You step closer to her, both of you watching instead of joining.

“What was that?” she asks.

“What was what?” you reply, eyes drifting briefly to Allegra and Jack’s interaction- his hand sneaking a little too low, her smacking his arm but smiling all the same.

Becca doesn’t answer right away. You turn to find her staring at you, suspicious and unreadable.

“What?” you ask again, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“Nothing,” she says too calmly, raising her hands in surrender.

You don’t believe her for a second but you let it go. Sienna is the last to arrive. The door swings open just as Allegra is dramatically untangling the cords of the karaoke machine, and Sienna steps in with a laugh, tossing her bag onto the chair like she never missed a beat.

“I swear you guys only start without me,” she says, arms already out.

The room erupts- hellos overlapping, hugs traded in a messy cluster. Sienna freezes mid-embrace when she finally looks at you, her eyes dropping to your stomach.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, softer now. “You.”

You smile before she even reaches you, arms opening. Her hug is careful, grounding, the kind that lingers just long enough to say I’m here without needing the words. Soon the apartment is full- music playing, voices raised, laughter bouncing off the walls. Someone hands you a soda in a plastic cup. Someone else insists you sit, then immediately forgets and pulls you up again when your song comes on. Karaoke turns chaotic fast.

Allegra belts like she’s auditioning for something serious. Jack takes backup vocals way too seriously. Myra and Noel scream-sing together, arms locked. Mario records everything on his phone, narrating like a documentary no one asked for.

You’re laughing -really laughing- when Owen appears at your side, close enough that your arms brush.

“You good?” he asks, leaning down slightly so only you can hear him over the noise.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just… overstimulated in a good way.”

He smiles at that, his hand briefly touching your elbow as he gestures you toward the couch when someone starts jumping dangerously close. It’s quick, barely there- but when he lets go, you feel the absence of it.

-

Later, when you’re all packed onto the couch, knees overlapping, you catch him watching you during a quieter song. His gaze isn’t heavy or curious- just soft. Familiar. When the couch shifts and you lose your balance slightly, his hand finds your lower back automatically, steadying you before either of you really think about it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” you say, just as quietly.

At one point, he hands you a bowl of ice cream he somehow knows is exactly what you want. Chocolate, extra strawberries. No questions.

“Thanks,” you say, fingers brushing his as you take it.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. Sienna ends up beside you later, her arm slung around your shoulders as the room hums with noise and comfort.

“This,” she says softly, nodding around at everyone, “feels right.”

You swallow, emotion tightening your throat, and lean into her just a little. Across the room, Owen laughs at something Jack says, throwing his head back. When he looks back at you, your eyes meet- and for a brief moment, the noise fades. You don’t feel fixed.But you feel held. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re in the middle of laughing -really laughing- watching Mario and Allegra absolutely scream their hearts out to “No Air” like their lives depend on it, when your phone buzzes against your thigh.

You barely glance at it at first. Then you do. Rafe. Your smile falters. Just a little. Enough that Becca notices from across the room. You flip the phone over.

Rafe: Where are you?

Your brows knit together, a knot forming low in your chest. You weren’t expecting a text from him tonight. You especially weren’t expecting this- the way it already feels like it’s pressing in on your space. You type back.

You: I told you I’m out of town.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Disappear. Come back.

Rafe: Who are you with?

Your jaw tightens Excuse me? You don’t even get the chance to respond before his name lights up your screen, vibrating insistently in your hand. He’s calling. Your body stiffens as if it recognizes the shift before your brain does.

“You okay?” Owen asks quietly, his hand coming to rest on your upper back- steady, grounding. Not possessive. Just there.

“Yeah- yeah,” you say quickly, forcing a breath. You glance toward Noel, who’s perched on the arm of the couch. “Is there somewhere I can take this?”

“Yeah,” she says immediately, pointing. “My room- down the hall.”

You push yourself up with a soft grunt, ignoring the way your pelvis protests, and hurry down the hallway before the call can roll over to voicemail. Noel’s room is exactly what you remember- bright yellow walls, sketches taped up in chaotic clusters, half-finished ideas everywhere. An unmade bed. An easel in the corner with a painting still waiting to be finished. It smells faintly like acrylic paint and citrus cleaner. You answer before you can overthink it.

“Hello?” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Where are you?” Rafe asks again.

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds… pointed. Like he already thinks he knows the answer. You lean against the edge of the bed, crossing your arms loosely over your belly.

“Why do you think you’re entitled to know where I am?” you ask.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to tell you he didn’t expect that.

“Why are you avoiding my question?” he shoots back.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you say calmly. Too calmly. “I just don’t owe you an explanation. Last time I checked, you’re not my boyfriend. Or my fiancé. So I get to decide what I answer.”

He exhales on the other end- too slow, too heavy.

“I want to make sure my child is being carried responsibly.”

That does it. Your spine straightens, heat flashing through your chest. And only now do you really hear it- the slight drag in his words, the looseness around the edges. He’s been drinking.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless.

“Okay,” you say. “You want to know that badly? I’m in New York. I’m with my friends. There.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “New York?”

“Yes. New York,” you repeat. “I’m not at a bar. I’m not doing anything reckless. I’m eating pizza, singing karaoke, and sitting down every fifteen minutes because my back hurts.”

Another pause.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to New York.”

“I told you I was out of town,” you say. “That was the information you’re barely entitled to.”

His voice drops. Not softer- just heavier. “There any guys there?”

Your breath catches- not because of guilt, but because of the audacity. “Rafe,” you say slowly, carefully, “this is exactly why we are not together.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” you correct. “That’s a boundary.”

You hear him swallow. A chair scrape. Maybe he’s sitting in his favorite chair in the living room at Tanny Hill. Maybe he’s somewhere else entirely.

“I just don’t want to be cut out,” he says, finally. And for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. Something unguarded. You close your eyes.

“You’re not cut out,” you say. “But you don’t get to control me. Not anymore.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quietly, “I miss you.”

Your chest aches. Not because it fixes anything- but because it doesn’t.

“I know,” you say. And you mean it. “But missing me doesn’t give you access to me.”

When you hang up, your hand trembles slightly as you lower the phone. You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in Noel’s paint-scented air, one hand settling instinctively over your belly. When you step back into the living room, the song has changed. Laughter still fills the space. Owen looks up immediately, concern flickering across his face.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, sitting back down. “I am.”

And for the rest of the night, you let yourself be exactly where you are.

-

By the time the ice cream has melted into pale, soupy streaks at the bottom of their cartons and nearly everyone’s voices are shot, the night begins to wind down. The pizza boxes sits abandoned on the counter, only the unwanted slices left behind- pepperoni, cold cheese, crusts no one bothered with.

Shoes start appearing again by the door. Jack murmurs something vague about “meeting up with someone,” which you’re fairly certain is code for a late-night hookup. Sienna checks her phone and groans about an early morning shift- despite her parents’ money, hers are the kind that insist she clock in anyway. Myra and Mario stay back to help tidy for a bit, laughing softly as they gather empty cups, before heading out together.

Eventually it’s just you, the girls, and Owen.

Noel is crouched on the floor with a paper towel, scrubbing at a sticky patch of dried ice cream someone spilled hours ago. Allegra is stacking glasses at the sink. The apartment feels quieter now- comfortable in that end-of-the-night way.

You shove the second, unopened tub of vanilla into the freezer with more force than necessary.

“So,” Owen says casually, wiping down the kitchen island behind you, “everything okay?”

You shrug without turning around. “Um- yeah. It’s fine.” You can feel his eyes on you anyway. He must’ve noticed how you went quiet after disappearing earlier, how you’d laughed a little less, leaned back a little more into yourself.

He stops wiping and leans against the counter instead. “I know we don’t talk all the time,” he says carefully, “but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You close the freezer door and pause, your reflection staring back at you in the brushed steel. You exhale before turning around, crossing your arms loosely over your chest.

“I know. It’s just… a lot,” you admit. “And I don’t really want to dump it all on someone else’s plate.”

“My plate’s empty,” he says with a small shrug, hands slipping into his pockets.

You nod, appreciative, but the words still don’t come. Before the silence can stretch too long, Allegra appears beside you with a stack of glass plates balanced against her hip. “So are these,” she announces. “Can you guys load the dishwasher?”

Owen takes the plates from her immediately. “Yeah, I got it.”

You linger by the fridge while he loads them, listening to the clink of ceramic and the low hum of the dishwasher kicking on. When Allegra disappears back into the living room, Owen glances at you again- hesitant this time, like he’s deciding something.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “If you don’t feel like going back to wherever you’re staying tonight… or even if you just don’t want to be alone-” You look up.

“There’s a late place down the street,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck. “Coffee, dessert, open way too late for no reason. We could hang out. No pressure. Just… sit.”

It doesn’t feel like a date. It doesn’t feel like an obligation. It just feels like an offer. And for the first time all night, the tightness in your chest eases- just a little.

-

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that feels intentional rather than lonely. One barista hums softly behind the counter while wiping down the espresso machine, the lights dimmed just enough to make everything feel warmer than it actually is. You bite into the toasted cheese danish, the edges crisp, the center still soft, and chase it with a sip of tea. Across from you, Owen cradles a mug of black coffee between his hands.

Earlier, while you and Becca were getting ready to meet Beau back at the hotel, you’d told her you were going to hang out with Owen instead. Of course, she’d given the two of you that same suspicious look- eyes darting between you, lips pressed together like she had thoughts she was choosing not to voice. Still, you made sure both of you walked her back to the hotel before heading here.

Now, you sit tucked into the corner of the café, knees angled toward each other, the silence between you not uncomfortable- just full.

“So,” Owen says finally, breaking it gently as he takes a sip of coffee, “what happened earlier?”

You keep chewing, eyes on your plate. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head slightly, lips curling in a way that says ‘you know exactly what I’m talking about’. “When you came back from Noel’s room. You got really quiet. What was that about?”

You sigh, your chewing slowing. “I was on the phone with my idiot ex-fiancé,” you admit. “That’s what that was.”

His eyebrows lift, not in surprise- more like confirmation. “What’d he do?” he asks, then quickly adds, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I think the better question is what didn’t he do?”

Owen leans back slightly, listening.

“He’s broken my heart and ruined me a million times,” you continue, voice steady even if the words aren’t. “I don’t know why I thought the last time would be different.” You pause, thumb tracing the edge of your plate. “And now -with the baby- you’d think he’d try harder. Be better. But I guess that’s my fault for believing literally any man.” You glance up at him. “No offense.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and lifts his mug in mock surrender. “None taken. You’re not wrong.”

You smile faintly, then look back down.

“I’m really sorry,” he says after a moment, more softly now. “That you’ve had to endure… all of that.”

There’s no rush in his voice. No attempt to fix it. Just sympathy, plain and real, and it catches you off guard more than anything else tonight.

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, shrugging. “It’s not your fault.”

Owen doesn’t respond right away. He watches you over the rim of his mug, then sets it down.

“You know,” he says, careful, “it doesn’t have to be someone’s fault for it to suck.”

That makes you look up.

“And you don’t have to minimize it just because you’ve survived it,” he adds.

The words settle heavy -but not unkind- between you. You take another sip of tea, feeling something loosen in your chest.

“Thanks,” you murmur finally.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

The coffee shop hums quietly around you again, and for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re carrying everything alone.

—

The OBX air feels exactly the same as it did when you left. It always does. Salty, heavy, familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest whether you want it to or not. Becca and Beau have barely pulled away when your phone buzzes as you’re unlocking the door. You glance down, pushing it open with your shoulder.

Owen: Make it home okay?

You’re smiling before you even realize it.

You: I did. Thank you again for last night. I really appreciate you.

A few seconds pass.

Owen: Glad to be of help.

You lock the door behind you and lean back against it, pressing the cool wood into your spine. You hold your phone to your chest, biting your lip, exhaling slowly. This isn’t a I think I found someone new feeling. It’s not butterflies or anticipation or longing. It’s quieter than that.

It’s realizing how long it’s been since a man sat across from you and simply listened. No defensiveness. No arguing. No trying to fix or control or dismiss what you were feeling. He hadn’t wanted anything from you. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked for more. He’d just been there.

And sometimes, that was everything.

You’re still leaning there, wrapped in the silence of your house, when the sound of a vehicle swerving outside cuts through the calm. Tires crunch against gravel.  Your brows knit together.

You straighten and pull the door open, peering out and your stomach drops.

A motorcycle is pulling into your driveway. The rider swings a leg off, removes his helmet, and you blink once. Twice. Like your eyes might be lying to you. They aren’t.

Rafe Cameron stands there, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight. Your heart sinks straight to your feet. Before you can stop yourself, you storm outside, your belly leading the way.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you demand. Your voice isn’t loud- but it’s sharp. Grounded.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why the hell are you flying to New York when you’re this pregnant?”

The audacity nearly steals your breath.

“I’m four months pregnant,” you snap. “Not days away from giving birth. And it’s none of your business. You. Are. Not. My. Fiancé. Do you not understand that?”

He ignores you completely, brushing past and heading for the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” you call after him, following close. “And how did you even find my house?”

You slam the door shut behind you, more for the neighbors than for him. Your quiet street doesn’t need front-row seats to this.

Rafe paces your living room like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, anger vibrating off him even as he tries -badly- to rein it in.

“What has gotten into you, Rafe?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper now.

He whirls around. “What’s gotten into me? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m still the same me,” you say. “You’re the one who changed. This isn’t the Rafe I met at the beginning of last summer.”

Your eyes burn. Everything feels like it shifted overnight- good to bad, bad to unbearable. You see the tears in his eyes too, but his pride keeps them caged. Then, without warning, he strides toward you and snatches your phone from your hand.

“Rafe- what are you-” you reach for it, panic spiking, but he twists away, already unlocking it.

“Who the fuck is Owen?” he hisses, scrolling.

“He’s my friend,” you cry. “And you’ve met him. Rafe, give me my phone back.”

You instinctively cradle your belly as you sob, fear crawling up your spine- not for yourself, but for what he might do to the baby trying to keep you from your own phone.

“What’s ‘thanks for last night’?” he spits. “What did you do while carrying my child?” He throws your phone down the hallway. It skids across the floor and cracks loudly against the wall. You flinch.

“Nothing!” you sob. “We sat in a coffee shop. I talked. He listened. Something I begged you for- something you never gave me.”

Your chest heaves as the words tumble out. Who is this man? Where is the person you loved?

Rafe exhales shakily, hands trembling as he drags them over his buzzed hair. His face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He drops into a squat, head bowed, shoulders shaking as he breaks. Fully breaks. And that terrifies you. This is the Rafe who scares you. The Rafe who hurt Sarah. The Rafe everyone warned you about. You back away slowly until your spine hits the door. You slide down, shielding your belly as tears fall freely. The two of you cry in silence, the room heavy with it.

“I love you,” he sobs. “And I can’t stand this. Being away from you.” His breath stutters. “I hurt her.”

Your crying stills. “Hurt who, Rafe?” you whisper.

“Sarah,” he chokes. “I hurt Sarah. I messed up. I didn’t want you to see me the way everyone else does- as this monster.” He looks up, eyes red. “But now that’s all you see, isn’t it?”

Your heart fractures watching him like this. You hate how much it still hurts. “I don’t see you as a monster,” you say softly, wiping your face. “I just wanted honesty. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”

The words hang between you- simple, devastating, and far too late.

“I’m giving it to you now,” he cries. “Everything. I just- I want you back. I want us to be a family.”

Your chest tightens. “You broke up with me, Rafe,” you say, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You hurt me a thousand times and you think you can just… show up and I’ll take you back?” A shaky breath slips past your lips. “All you had to do the first time was be honest. People mess up. Emotions get out of control. None of what you did was okay- but all you had to say was that you hurt her, that you were wrong, that you didn’t mean it.”

He nods frantically, wiping at his face. “I fucked up. I know I did. I was stupid. I ruined our future with my own hands.” His voice cracks. “I’m owning that. I swear I am. Just… please.”

He stands and crosses the room in two quick strides, then drops to his knees in front of you again. His hands find yours, warm and familiar, and your breath catches. It hurts- how immediate it is. How your heart swells the second his skin touches yours. Four months without him. Four months without this. You hate how deeply your body remembers him, how much you’ve missed something you swore you were learning to live without.

“Please, y/n,” he whispers. Begging.

Your vision blurs. God, you want to say yes. You want to fold, to pull him into you, to believe him, to go back to the version of your life where loving him didn’t feel like walking on broken glass. But you can’t.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, pulling your hand free even though it feels like tearing something out of your chest. “I forgive you- but I can’t do this again. I can’t put myself through it. I can’t put the baby through it.” Your voice breaks completely. “I just can’t.”

His shoulders sag. His head drops forward, and a single tear slides down the bridge of his nose before dripping onto the floor. He sniffs once, sharply, like he’s trying to pull himself back together and failing.

The room fills with the sound of both of you breathing through heartbreak- his too late, and yours finally choosing to survive. The house settles back into silence.

The tears are gone, wiped away with the backs of your hands and shallow breaths, but the hurt lingers- heavy and unresolved, sitting in your chest like something you don’t know where to put yet. Rafe has shifted from kneeling to sitting across from you on the floor, his back slumped over. His fingers trace idle patterns along the wood, like he needs to keep moving or he’ll unravel all over again.

You’re the one who breaks the quiet.

“How did you know I was in New York?” you ask softly.

“You told me” he chuckles, eyes still on the floor.

“No- before i told you. You knew i wasn’t in the obx.” 

He lets out a small, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Beau,” he says. “We talked a while back. He mentioned going to New York with his sister to meet some investment guy.” He shrugs. “You said you were out of town, so I took a wild guess.”

You nod, staring at a spot on the floor between you. The silence stretches again, thick but not hostile. Not anymore. You don’t really know how to fill it- and truthfully, you don’t want him to leave. The realization surprises you with how immediate it is.

Rafe clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably go,” he says, forcing a weak half-smile. “Sorry I showed up like a total psychopath.”

You shake your head quickly. Despite the chaos, despite the fear and the shouting, something about this -all of it- feels necessary. “No, it’s…” You trail off, unsure how to finish. It wasn’t okay. But it was honest. And maybe that’s what you both needed.

He steps closer and holds out his hands, wordlessly offering to help you up. You take them, his grip steady as he pulls you to your feet. For a moment, neither of you moves. Time freezes. You stand there, close enough to feel his warmth, looking at each other like you’re both waiting for the same invisible cue- what now?

“I know you said no,” he says quietly. “And I’ll respect that.” His voice softens. “But… can we talk? Maybe be friends?” His eyes search yours. “Not just for the baby. For us.”

You’re nodding before you fully realize it. “Yeah,” you say, surprised by how easily the word comes out. “Yeah, we can.”

Relief flickers across his face. He exhales, looking down- and that’s when you notice your hands. Still tangled together, holding too tight, like neither of you was ready to be the one to let go first. You take a deep breath and gently pull away. He follows your lead, fingers lingering just a second too long before falling back to his sides.

You walk to the door and open it. The sky has darkened, clouds rolling in low and heavy, the air thick with the promise of a storm. You can smell it -the familiar OBX rain that always comes fast and leaves everything different in its wake. It’s strange how only minutes ago you were yelling, crying, breaking- and now the world feels still. You step aside to let him pass.

He walks onto the porch, pauses, and turns back to look at you one last time. There’s so much left unsaid, but neither of you tries to say it. He puts his helmet on, mounts the bike, and rides off down the street, the sound fading into the distance.

You close the door behind him.

The house is quiet again- but this time, it doesn’t feel quite as empty.

----------

Her body tenses instantly- the kind of stiffness that comes from a truth she’s not ready to say aloud. She looks toward the hallway, maybe hoping one of the others will come back and save her from answering. But no one does. It’s just the sound of the ceiling fan and the faint chirp of morning birds outside.

“Y/N…” she says finally, voice low. “I don’t think that’s something you want to know.”

You stare at her, shaking your head. “I do. I need to. Because he won’t tell me. Every time I try, he shuts down, and I can’t-” your throat tightens, “-I can’t marry someone who looks at me like I’m the enemy whenever I mention your name.”

Sarah swallows hard, eyes flicking down to your hand- to the faint indentation where your engagement ring presses into your skin. Her jaw flexes.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispers. “What happened between Rafe and us… it’s not something that can just be explained over tea.”

“Try,” you say quietly, almost pleading just as the others begin to come back one by one.

Sarah looks torn- guilt flickering across her face. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like the words are caught somewhere between her throat and conscience. Finally, she exhales shakily, pressing her palms flat on the table.

“There are things he’s done,” she says at last, “things I don’t think you could ever look at him the same way after hearing.”

You freeze. Her words hang in the air, cold and final.

Your voice is small when you ask, “Did he hurt you?”

Sarah’s silence says more than anything else could. JJ’s voice cuts through the thick, uneasy silence.“Sarah, come on,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. “She deserves to know.”

Sarah shoots him a sharp look, but it doesn’t stop him. “JJ,” she warns quietly.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m serious. You can’t just- pretend like that didn’t happen. Especially if she’s…” He trails off, glancing at you, then at the mug trembling in your hands. “She’s marrying him, Sarah. You really gonna keep quiet about what Rafe’s capable of?”

“JJ,” John B cuts in firmly. “This isn’t your call.”

JJ scoffs, dropping back in his seat. “Yeah, sure, but it’s not yours either. She’s sitting here, crying her eyes out, trying to make sense of the guy she’s about to spend the rest of her with. And we’re just gonna play dumb?”

Cleo exhales slowly, arms crossed as she leans against the counter. “He has a point,” she mutters.

Pope looks between them all, clearly uncomfortable. “But if Sarah tells her, Rafe will know it came from here. And who do you think he’s gonna come after?”

Sarah rubs her hands over her face, visibly torn. “It’s not about Rafe,” she says finally, her voice shaking. “It’s about you. And what hearing this might do to you. You don’t know him like that- you know the version he shows you.”

Your voice cracks as you interrupt, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know him at all, do I?”

They all fall silent again.

Sarah looks at you, eyes soft and pained. “I think you should hear it from him,” she says. “Not from us. It’ll mean something different that way. And if he can’t be honest with you now… then that tells you everything you need to know.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. You swallow hard, holding back another wave of tears.

“Okay,” you say, voice trembling. “Okay.”

The room stays quiet after that, just the sound of the kettle clicking off behind you.

Sarah gets up, grabs the mug from your hands, and refills it with fresh hot water. When she sets it back down in front of you, her voice is barely a whisper.

“If you need to stay here for a bit… you can.”

——

When you get home, it’s barely 8 a.m. The world is quiet in that soft, pale light that comes before the day really begins  -the kind of quiet that makes you feel small. After leaving their house, you didn’t drive straight back. You found yourself at the water instead, sitting in the same spot where Rafe first took you- that night that felt like the start of everything. You remember how he looked at you then, how real it all felt. But now, even that memory feels tainted.

You stare out at the rippling surface, wondering if you’d fallen in love with someone who never truly existed. If the man who held you and promised you forever was just a carefully constructed version of himself- one he thought you’d believe.

By the time you finally pulled into the driveway, your body felt hollow. You close the front door without a second thought, the soft click echoing through the empty house. You don’t even bother to move quietly anymore. What’s the point?

Your stomach twists as you think about what Sarah didn’t say- the silence that filled every corner of that room when you asked what happened between them and Rafe. That silence said enough. Something’s wrong. Something’s dark.

You press a shaking hand to your forehead, heart pounding.

Maybe this was why he didn’t want you near them. Maybe he knew the truth would eventually find its way to you. And maybe the version of Rafe you loved -the one who laughed with you, planned a wedding with you, kissed your shoulder in the mornings- was just a mask he wore to keep you from seeing what was underneath.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting in your chest.

If that’s the case, then it’s already too late -because you didn’t just fall for him. You built your life around him. And now you’re not sure if any of it was real. Your mother warned you about him, and you didn’t listen. You brushed it off as her usual skepticism- her way of testing every man who came near you. But standing here now, drained and hollow, you can’t help but wonder if she’d been right all along.

The quiet of the house feels heavy, too neat, like nothing bad could possibly exist within it. You step further inside, and there’s Eve perched at the kitchen island, iPad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear like always.

“You’re home!” she chirps, barely looking up as her fingers dance across the screen. “I was wondering where you went. The wine tasting starts at three-thirty. At twelve, you have brunch with Becca and Marie- Becca confirmed it this morning. Oh, and your friends from New York? They went back home. Something about Noel having an art gallery event, but they’ll be back in two weeks.”

Her voice is smooth, efficient- like a walking calendar app with too much enthusiasm. You nod absently. You’d forgotten about the wine tasting, the brunch, all of it. The idea of sitting across from Rafe, pretending to be a glowing fiancée, makes your stomach turn. You’re not even sure you can look at him without feeling sick- not after realizing how little you actually know about the man you’ve been building a life with.

“Everything okay?” Eve asks, all wide-eyed concern. But you catch the faint glint in her gaze- she knows. She was here last night, wasn’t she? Definitely heard the argument. Maybe even enjoyed watching it unfold from behind her tablet screen.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m fine,” you say, your voice thin with exhaustion as you slip your shoes off by the door. “I’m going to take a nap.”

You head down the hall, then up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. You pause at the guest room -the same one you slept in last night- your hand resting on the door handle. But when your gaze drifts toward the end of the hall, toward the primary bedroom, something in you tightens.

Your bedroom. Rafe’s.

Why should you be the one sleeping in a guest room? You’re not the one who’s been living a lie. You made a mistake, sure- going behind his back to see Sarah and the Pogues. You own that. But you went searching for truth, and he’s been hiding from it. From you.

He’s been showing you this carefully polished version of himself- the doting fiancé, the steady provider, the man who wants a family. But underneath all that charm, there’s something darker, something he refuses to name. Whatever happened between him, Sarah, and the Pogues -it’s not small. You can feel it in your bones.

If -and it’s a big if- you still go through with this wedding, it can’t be built on secrets. You deserve to know who he is. Who he’s hurt. How far he’s gone. You deserve the truth- not a persona crafted to keep you in the dark.

You inhale sharply. Fuck it.

You push the bedroom door open.

It’s empty. The faint smell of his cologne still lingers- clean and sharp, like cedar and regret. The comforter’s rumpled on his side, and one of his watches sits carelessly on the dresser. The absence of him somehow makes it easier to breathe.

You exhale, drop your towel, and crawl into the cool sheets. The tension in your chest eases slightly. You grab your phone, set an alarm to give yourself time to wake up, shower, and make it to brunch with Becca - maybe Marie, if Becca actually invited her.

The moment your head hits the pillow, exhaustion wins. Thoughts blur into static - your mother’s voice, Sarah’s hesitation, Rafe’s anger - all swirling into silence as you finally, mercifully, drift off to sleep.

——

You wake to your alarm blaring, the afternoon sun spilling through the window in warm, unbothered streaks. For a moment, you forget everything- until the ache in your chest reminds you. You reach for your phone. No texts from Rafe. No missed calls. The house feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to admit something you’re not ready to.

After a long shower, you pull on a white tank top and a floral orange-and-yellow maxi skirt, slicking your hair into a low bun. You stare at your reflection longer than usual. You look fine. You can act fine.

By the time you pull up to the brunch spot, it’s buzzing with the lazy afternoon crowd. You check in at the host stand and spot Becca waving from across the patio, sunglasses perched on her head, iced water already half gone. Marie isn’t there yet.

“Hey,” you greet her with what you hope is an easy smile, slipping into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” she echoes, squinting at you like she’s trying to read the fine print of your expression. “You look… tired.”

You shrug, brushing it off as the server drops off a menu. “Didn’t sleep great. Rafe snores.”

Becca hums, unconvinced. “Mhm.”

Before she can press, Marie arrives- oversized sunglasses, expensive silver hoops, and a bright two-piece that’s definitely doing a lot for brunch but somehow works for her.

“Sorry, traffic was insane.” She leans down to hug you both before sliding in beside you. “I need a mimosa pitcher. If that’s okay.”

You nod gratefully, taking the chance to hide behind your napkin.

Conversation drifts easily at first -Becca talks about work, Marie complains about a guy who ghosted her after three dates suddenly hitting her up again- but you’re barely there. You laugh in the right places, sip your drink, push food around your plate.

Becca eventually narrows her eyes again. “So. You’re really not gonna tell us what’s going on?”

You blink, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been weird all week. I thought maybe it was just stress, but now you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Marie nods slowly, side-eyeing you. “You didn’t even touch your pancakes.”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just… tired. Wedding planning, pregnancy hormones- it’s a lot.”

Becca studies you for a beat longer, like she’s deciding whether to call your bluff. Then she lets out a small sigh and leans back. “Okay. Fine. But you know you don’t have to pretend, right?”

“I’m not pretending,” you say lightly, even though you both know you are.

Marie raises her glass, breaking the tension. “Well, here’s to pretending anyway. God knows I’ve done enough of it. Especially with orgasms.”

You laugh with them, clinking glasses, but the sound doesn’t reach your chest. The whole time, your mind drifts back to that conversation with Sarah- the way her voice shook, the way she looked at you like she pitied you.

And as you sip your virgin mimosa, you wonder if Becca can tell that the ring on your finger suddenly feels too heavy.

The three of you end up lingering at brunch longer than you planned. The conversation eventually settles into something easy- Becca teasing Marie about her outfit, Marie dramatically insisting she’s “manifesting better energy,” and you pretending to listen, smiling when you’re supposed to.

Becca keeps watching you though. You can feel it even when you’re not looking at her, like she’s waiting for you to crack.

When the bill finally comes, Marie insists on paying (“It’s my treat, brides only get married once- or twice, if you’re lucky”), and Becca rolls her eyes. You gather your things, grateful to have had something to do with your hands.

Outside, the sun’s warmer than expected, the kind that makes everything feel slightly surreal. Marie’s already scrolling through her phone, checking the address for the wine tasting.

“Are we all heading there together?” Becca asks, keys jangling in her hand.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second too long. “Oh- uh, no. Rafe’s supposed to meet me there.”

Marie glances up. “He’s not picking you up?”

You shake your head, forcing an airy tone. “He had something to handle this morning. Said he’d meet me at the vineyard.”

Becca’s brow furrows slightly. “You sure? It’s kind of a drive, and with the way you’ve been feeling-”

“I’m fine,” you cut in, sharper than intended. You soften it with a small smile. “Really. I’ll see you guys there.”

They exchange a quick look -one of those silent, wordless girl-friend telepathies- and Marie shrugs, nudging Becca’s arm. “Okay, but if you’re late, we’re starting without you.”

You wave as they walk off toward their car, keeping your smile in place until they’re out of sight. Only then do you let your shoulders drop.

For a moment, you just stand there in the parking lot, sunlight glinting off the ring on your finger. You twist it once, twice, until it feels loose. The brunch laughter still echoes faintly in your head, but underneath it is something else- Sarah’s voice, low and uncertain, repeating the same words over and over.

You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over Rafe’s location again. You tell yourself you won’t look. That you’ll trust him. But your stomach churns with that familiar unease- the kind that feels a lot like knowing the truth, even if you’re too afraid to see it.Finally, you slip your phone back into your bag, take a steadying breath, and walk toward your car.

Because for now, pretending still feels easier than finding out.

By the time you pull into the vineyard, the sun is warm but not harsh, and the air carries that faint, earthy scent of oak barrels and soil. You park and step out, adjusting your maxi skirt as you spot everyone gathered near the tasting tables. Becca waves, already halfway through telling a story, and Marie is laughing too loudly at some detail. Your mom is perched on a folding chair, glass of sparkling water in hand, while Topper leans lazily against a barrel nearby.

Then there’s Rafe. Leaning casually on the table, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, scanning the group with that infuriatingly calm look he always manages to pull off. And behind him, Eve- tucked slightly to the side, iPad in hand, scribbling or typing something down, quietly taking in the scene like she’s part of the furniture. Though, you don’t recall inviting her.

Your chest tightens as you walk toward them, forcing a polite smile. “Hey,” you say, voice steady, though your fingers clutch the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

“Hey, bride-to-be,” Rafe says, voice casual, tipping an imaginary hat. His smile is there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You bite back a groan.

“Hi,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I’ll just… watch from here. No wine for me today.” You give a nod to the sommelier, letting him know you won’t be tasting.

Marie rolls her eyes at your warning but smirks. “ Someone has to remember what happens here.”

Rafe tilts his head at you, expression neutral. “Someone has to keep us all in line,” he says lightly. You grit your teeth just behind your smile.

Eve glances up briefly from her iPad. “Glad you could make it,” she says. That simple acknowledgment sets your teeth on edge - she should know that she shouldn’t be here, and you’re still seething under the surface.

“Thanks,” you say flatly, eyes flicking away.

Becca steps in between the two of you like an unwitting buffer. “Okay, so here’s the plan. We’re tasting in groups- I’ll keep everyone organized.” She glances at you. “You just hang back and make sure no one tries to spill wine on you.” She gives you a playful wink, but you can feel the tension in your shoulders, the heat rising from your chest.

Rafe moves closer to the table where the bottles are lined up, flipping one over, inspecting the label. You force yourself to glance at him -calm, composed, flawless- and suppress the urge to march over and call him out for inviting Eve behind your back, for violating the unspoken boundaries between you.

Beau pops up beside Rafe, joking about one of the labels, and Rafe smirks, joining the banter like it’s normal. Your jaw tightens. You’re literally only here because you’re the bride, and yet he’s playing some sort of game using Eve like none of this matters.

You take a breath and let Becca pull you toward the chairs set up under the pergola. “Come on, you can supervise,” she says. You give a forced laugh, sliding into your seat. You keep your posture stiff, back straight, hands folded in your lap. Every time Rafe’s gaze flicks to you -and you know it does- you remind yourself: cordial. Controlled.

The group moves through the wine tasting, glasses clinking, bottles being opened. Everyone is engaged, chatting, laughing, but there’s a subtle undercurrent- a quiet tension whenever Rafe and you are in the same visual line. You notice the little things: the way Rafe leans slightly toward Eve when she talks, how he laughs at something she says, the small nods he gives her. You fight the wave of frustration rising inside.

When Topper cracks a joke that makes everyone laugh, even you, Rafe shoots a quick glance at you. His expression unreadable, almost apologetic, though he doesn’t say anything. You catch your breath, willing yourself not to explode, not to bring up the betrayal in front of everyone.

The tasting continues, the afternoon sun dipping lower. You sip water, forcing yourself to engage in polite conversation, all the while watching Rafe move through the motions, Eve close at his side, and realizing just how much you’re suppressing.

This is your wedding, you remind yourself. You’re the bride. You don’t need to get pulled into his games. But every polite smile feels like a lie, and every shared laugh he gives Eve is a dagger twisting in your chest.

By the time the group starts moving to the next tasting station, you’re exhausted - not from walking or socializing, but from holding yourself together. And in the back of your mind, you know it won’t be long before all this pretending catches up to you- and when it does, it won’t be polite anymore.

You step a few feet away from the table, forcing yourself to breathe in the crisp morning air of the vineyard. The tension in your chest burns, and you can feel Rafe’s presence before you hear him.

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” he mutters sharply, his voice low but laced with controlled anger. He steps closer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Let what go?” you snap, spinning to face him, heat rising in your chest. “You want to talk about letting things go? You’ve been hiding everything from me. Everything! And I find out -through others- that you hurt Sarah. That you… that you did something to her!”

His eyes widen, just slightly, like he didn’t expect you to know. His hand clenches at his side. “What are you talking about?” His voice drops to a harsh whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about.” You pause to allow the tears to dry out before looking back to him. “I don’t know everything,” you hiss back, voice shaking despite yourself. “But enough to know that I can’t just sit here and pretend like I don’t know. And then you’re inviting Eve behind my back like some petty revenge because I went to see the Pogues?!”

Rafe steps closer, lowering his voice but the anger is sharp in every word. “That’s not revenge. You went behind my back first! You went to them, you talked to Sarah- you went again this morning! And I didn’t even know!”

You stiffen. “Yes, I did. Because I needed to know what the hell is going on. Because you won’t tell me. You pretend to be someone else around me. You smile, you charm, you act like… like nothing happened, but it did! And I deserved to know.”

“You deserved to know?” he echoes, disbelief coloring his tone. “You think you can just march in there and get answers while I’m supposed to sit here like a child?!”

Your voice rises, just enough to scare yourself. “I went because what you were showing me wasn’t the whole truth! And now I’m supposed to just ignore everything else? Pretend that your secrets -whatever you’ve done- don’t exist? I can’t, Rafe. I just can’t!”

His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “I didn’t want you to find out through them. I wanted to be able to tell you myself. And… I didn’t think you’d actually go back to them. Not after the first time!”

You glance at him, the anger mingling with disbelief. “Tell me yourself? Really? Would that have been before or after I would've been trapped in a marriage with you? And then you think I could just let that go? I fell in love with some fake version of you, and I find out you’ve… hurt people, Rafe. And you expect me to just… sit in your lap and smile?”

He flinches at the accusation, eyes flicking away for just a second, like he’s realizing the weight of what you know. “I didn’t- no, you don’t understand. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” you snap. “I don’t know, Rafe! And that’s the point. I don’t know the half of it, and you won’t tell me! And now, somehow, you’re acting like I’m the problem for trying to figure it out myself?!”

His hands clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You don’t get it- you think you’re protecting yourself, but all you’ve done is go behind my back, the way I guess you think I went behind yours. You went to Sarah, and I… I didn’t want you to. Not because I don’t trust you… because I didn’t want to- ”

“Because you didn’t want me to what? Because it would expose you?” you cut in, voice trembling with fury. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time, Rafe! And I’m supposed to act normal at a wine tasting while you sit there acting like everything is fine?”

He exhales sharply, jaw tight, and the sudden quiet between you is almost worse than the whispered yelling. You can see the anger, the frustration, the realization in his eyes. He didn’t expect you to know, and now that you do, he understands just how deep this goes.

“Fine,” he mutters finally, low and tense. “We… we’ll pretend. For them. But you… you need to understand something. This isn’t just about the Pogues. It’s not just about Sarah. You… you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

You stare at him, chest heaving, and the bitter truth in his words makes your stomach twist. “No. You’re wrong. I do understand that there’s more to you. But I’m done pretending I don’t. And if we’re going to move forward… if we’re going to get married… I need to know. Everything. Or I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

His eyes flick to yours, full of something unreadable- a mix of anger, fear, and something that almost looks like regret. “You went to Sarah again,” he says, quiet now, and it’s almost a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I need to know who I’m marrying. And because I don’t want to be in the dark anymore. Not with a child on the way. Not ever.”

Rafe’s chest rises and falls, his fists unclenching just a little. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he mutters, though his voice lacks the previous fire. “You’ve forced me to… face things I’ve tried to bury.”

You step back, the tension in the air heavy, your anger mingling with exhaustion. “Good. Because I won’t bury anything for you. Not anymore.”

The moment stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid truths, the knowledge that whatever comes next is going to change everything- wedding, pregnancy, and the fragile trust between you.

When you and Rafe return to the table, the air feels heavier -thicker, even- as if everyone can sense that something’s cracked beneath the surface. You take your seat, careful not to brush against him, though he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his arm beside you. The others keep chatting, trying to smooth over the awkward energy, but the strain is obvious.

Your mom perks up almost instantly, oblivious- or maybe too aware, trying to diffuse it with politeness.

“Are you two okay? Rafe, you’ve missed the past two wines.”

Before he can open his mouth, you cut in quickly, sharper than you mean to. “We’re fine, Mom.”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes trained on the empty glass in front of you, the scent of cabernet hanging in the air making your stomach twist. You can’t drink, so you focus on slow, shallow breaths instead- counting them, grounding yourself, trying not to let your thoughts spiral.

The sommelier moves on to the next bottle, describing the “notes of blackberry and smoke” while you tune it all out. Rafe leans back in his chair, jaw tight, thumb tapping an impatient rhythm on his knee. He hasn’t said a word since you sat down, but his silence is loud enough to fill the space between you.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.

Becs: uhhh you guys good?

You glance up, and Becca’s staring at you from across the table with that unmistakable look- eyebrows slightly raised, concern etched across her face, not even bothering to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

You tap back a reply.

You: I’m fine. Why?

Another ping, almost immediately.

Becs: we’re just gonna pretend you didn’t have a whispered argument over there?

You fight the urge to glance at Rafe again, knowing Becca saw more than she should’ve. Instead, you type quickly, fingers tense.

You: we’ll talk about it later.

When you look up again, Becca’s already turned back toward Marie, clearly trying to give you space- but her eyes still flick toward you every few seconds, checking in silently.

You shift in your chair, pretending to adjust your napkin, but really just trying to keep your composure. Your mom’s voice hums faintly in the background, the sommelier’s spiel washing over you like static. You feel Rafe’s hand twitch beside you, like he almost reached for yours out of habit- but stops himself before he does.

It’s quiet. Painfully quiet.

And all you can think about is how impossible it feels to keep pretending you’re okay when every part of you is burning to ask him what he’s still hiding.

When the wine tasting finally winds down, there’s a collective murmur around the table as everyone votes on their favorite. Empty bottles and half-filled glasses clutter the white tablecloth, the air thick with that mellow scent of fruit and oak.

Topper raises his glass dramatically. “I’m just saying- my grandpa’s favorite always wins,” he declares, voice booming across the table. “Classic never fails.”

A few people laugh, and even your mom humors him with a smile, though you can tell she’s just glad to steer the mood somewhere lighthearted.

Becca and Marie have stayed mostly quiet for the last hour, only chiming in when someone directly asks for their opinions. You can feel their eyes on you every so often -gentle, worried, cautious- but neither of them pushes. They know better than to prod when your walls are up.

You’ve been quiet too, keeping your hands folded neatly in your lap, nodding when appropriate, pretending to listen to the sommelier’s final notes. It’s easier that way. You don’t need to taste anything; your pregnancy gives you the perfect excuse to withdraw without question. Still, sitting there sober while everyone else sips and laughs makes the distance between you and Rafe feel even more unbearable.

Your mom, as always, steps in to fill the silence. She’s animated now, leading the conversation effortlessly- asking about table arrangements, vineyard views, even bringing up potential menu pairings. You can tell she’s trying to keep everyone engaged, maybe even trying to shield you. 

She’s always been good at that.

But your focus keeps drifting. Every time Rafe shifts beside you, your attention snaps back. He’s been doing that thing he does when he’s avoiding your eyes- talking to anyone but you. Eve sits on his other side, laughing softly at something he says, her hand brushing his arm once or twice.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You tell yourself it’s fine, that you don’t care, that this is what happens when two people decide to hurt each other back. But your chest tightens anyway, your stomach turning even before the scent of wine hits you again. You press a palm against the tablecloth, grounding yourself, forcing a small smile when your mom looks your way.

Everything looks normal from the outside- just another wedding outing, just another couple planning their future. But beneath the linen and laughter, you can feel the cracks spreading. 

When the tasting wraps, the group slowly begins gathering their things- emptying glasses, scribbling down their votes, stretching from sitting too long. The air feels lighter for everyone else, but not for you. For you, it’s thick, suffocating.

Rafe stands, exchanging a few words with your mom about scheduling a follow-up visit. His tone is calm, collected, maybe even charming to an outsider- but you can see the sharpness in his jaw, the tightness behind the smile. The same controlled tension that’s been brewing since the argument.

Eve laughs softly at something Beau says, her bangles clinking when she sets her glass down. She doesn’t seem to notice your glare- or maybe she does and enjoys pretending she doesn’t. You try not to look, but it’s impossible not to see her sitting there, close enough to touch Rafe’s shoulder if she wanted to.

“Alright, I think we have our winner,” your mom announces cheerfully. “Cabernet number three. Smooth, elegant, perfect for the reception.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement, some clapping lightly. You nod absently, eyes trained on your half-empty glass of water.

As chairs scrape and people start filing out toward the exit, Becca lingers back, pretending to fix her purse strap. She sidles up to you, her voice low enough that no one else can hear.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, eyes searching your face.

You swallow, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Becca’s lips purse. “Yeah, you said that earlier too.”

You glance past her- Rafe’s talking to your mom again, his hand in his pocket, perfectly at ease. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t both nearly rip each other apart under your breath half an hour ago.

You look back at Becca. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” you say quietly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I just… can’t right now.”

Becca studies you for a second, her eyes softening. She doesn’t push, just nods once. “Alright. But you’re not fooling me, and you know it.”

You huff out a faint, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think I was.”

Before either of you can say more, Rafe turns toward you, his voice steady but clipped. “You ready?”

You nod, slipping your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He offers a hand, a gesture that feels more performative than genuine- something for your mom’s benefit. You take it anyway, because pretending is easier than another fight.

As you walk toward the exit together, Becca watches from behind, worry etched into her expression.

And though the sun is still shining over the vineyard, everything between you feels like it’s slowly going cold.

When the group starts scattering toward the parking lot, Rafe naturally falls in step beside you. It’s silent at first- no words, no small talk, not even the polite kind. Just the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the low murmur of laughter from the others behind you.

He’s walking you to your car, the way he always does. The gesture is automatic, rehearsed. It looks normal from the outside, like everything’s fine. Like you’re still that couple people envy for being so “put together.”

But neither of you says a word.

Your hands brush once -accidental, fleeting- and he takes it as his cue, reaching for yours out of habit. You let him, only because you can feel your mother’s eyes on your back and you don’t have the strength to start another argument in a parking lot full of people.

The silence stretches as you approach your car. He stops when you do, standing just close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint breeze. His expression is unreadable -controlled, careful- but you catch the smallest flicker of guilt in his eyes when he glances at you.

You let go of his hand first.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, your voice flat. You don’t look at him when you open the car door.

He nods once, his tone equally clipped. “Drive safe.”

You almost laugh—drive safe. Like the past 24 hours hadn’t happened, like you hadn’t both whispered threats and accusations between sips of water and fake smiles. Like everything was normal.

“Yeah,” you murmur, getting in. “You too.”

He steps back as you close the door, watching you through the glass. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for you to say something else or if he’s just making sure the performance looks good from the outside.

You start the car, pretending not to notice the way his jaw tightens when you finally pull away.

In the rearview mirror, he’s still standing there—hands in his pockets, face unreadable, sunlight catching on his hair like it’s mocking how warm things used to be between you.

——

You toss your bag onto the couch with a dull thud, the leather slumping against the cushions. The sound echoes through the quiet house, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Y/n,” Rafe calls from behind you, his footsteps following close.

You don’t stop walking. “Unless you’re about to tell me everything,” you snap, voice tight, “I don’t want to hear it.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And I didn’t want you talking to those fucking Pogues,” he fires back, his tone sharp, almost taunting. “And yet-” He gestures around the room, pacing. “Here we are.”

You stop dead in your tracks and turn to face him. “The difference,” you say, voice trembling more from anger than fear, “is that you didn’t want me talking to them because you had something to hide.”

His jaw ticks. “Doesn’t matter if I was hiding something or not,” he snaps, his voice rising, “you still went behind my back before you even knew that!”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. You can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, his chest heaving like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“You’re really gonna stand there and make me the problem?” you ask, voice breaking slightly. “When you’re the one who’s been lying to me- keeping God knows what from me- while I’m planning a wedding and carrying your child?”

That last part lands between you like a slap. His face flickers -guilt, shock, maybe even regret- but he says nothing.

You shake your head, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “You think me going to talk to Sarah is betrayal, but hiding whatever it is that you did to her- that’s justifiable?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. His silence is all the answer you need.

You take a step back, your voice soft but shaking. “You want to keep pretending? Fine. But don’t expect me to.”

The air between you is thick with everything you both can’t say- anger, fear, disappointment, love that’s starting to feel like a bruise.

You stare at him, chest rising and falling, waiting for him to say something- anything that makes sense of this. But instead, Rafe just shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, pacing like he’s seconds away from snapping.

“Maybe we should just call the wedding off,” he mutters finally, his voice low but sharp enough to cut straight through you.

You blink, your breath catching in your throat. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it again, more certain this time. “Maybe we should call it off.”

For a second, you can’t even move. The words hang there, heavy and cruel, echoing in your chest until you almost laugh from disbelief. “You’d rather call off our wedding,” you whisper, “than just tell me the truth?”

He exhales, jaw tightening, eyes flicking toward the floor. “It’s not that simple.”

Your voice breaks into a bitter scoff. “No, Rafe- it is that simple.” You take a step toward him, your tone trembling. “You’ve been lying to me, shutting me out, and the second I ask why, you’d rather throw all of this away than just be honest?”

He finally looks up, and there’s something cold in his expression- guilt buried under pride. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

You stare at him, almost laughing through the ache in your chest. “You’re right,” you whisper. “I don’t. Because you won’t let me.”

He stays silent, the space between you buzzing with unspoken things.

You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. “Maybe we should,” you say quietly. “Maybe we should call it off.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. Not when the man in front of you -the one who once made you feel safe- now feels like a stranger. He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Just stares at you with that same quiet, haunted look. And that hurts worse than if he’d yelled.

You turn away before he can see the tears spill over, muttering a shaky, “I can’t do this right now,” as you walk down the hall- leaving him standing there in the living room, motionless, surrounded by everything you both built together that suddenly feels like it’s already starting to fall apart.

 —

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You hiss through your teeth, jerking your hand back as the edge of the oven rack scorches your skin. The smell of baked apples and caramelized sugar fills Becca’s kitchen, but all you can focus on is the sting blooming across your palm. You set the pie -slightly lopsided, edges too dark- on the stovetop with a loud clang, muttering a quick, instinctive apology to your grandmother for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Old habits, even after she’s gone.

You twist the faucet on and let the cold water run over your hand, wincing as the temperature shocks the burn.

Becca watches from across the kitchen island, brow furrowed, but says nothing. She’s holding a bottle of wine she bought “for moral support,” which really just means getting drunk. She pops the cork, the sharp thunk echoing louder than it should in the quiet space.

For a while, neither of you speak. The kitchen hums softly with the sound of running water and the faint whir of the refrigerator. The silence isn’t uncomfortable- it’s the kind that exists when two people know each other too well to fill it with small talk.

You dry your hands on a towel, the burn already throbbing less, and glance over as Becca pours wine into an absurdly large glass. You can’t drink, obviously, but watching her swirl the dark liquid like it’s some kind of ritual almost soothes you.

“Looks drinkable,” you say softly, just to say something.

“Barely,” she replies, her voice light but her eyes searching yours.

You both fall quiet again, the smell of a freshly homemade pie lingering between you. You exhale slowly, leaning against the counter, letting the weight of everything -of Rafe, of last night, of the exhaustion you’ve been carrying- sink into your bones.

Becca doesn’t push. She never does, not until you’re ready. She just takes a long sip from her glass, eyes flicking toward you like she’s silently saying, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough. But you were ready to talk. You just didn’t know how. So you blurt it out.

“I think I’m gonna cancel the wedding.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the counter like the words might disappear if you don’t look up. Shame prickles at your skin. And maybe you should be ashamed. You jumped into this engagement so fast- even when he asked so casually. There was no grand moment, no real pause to think, just the weight of his gaze and your heart racing too loud to hear reason.

You remember when you didn’t take the bare minimum from a man. When you had standards- expectations. When you made him ask properly to be your boyfriend, because you knew what you deserved and you weren’t afraid to say it. That girl had a spine. She had a voice.

Now, you’re not sure what happened to her. The version of you that let him pull a ring out of his pocket like it was nothing- like proposing to you was just another question in passing- feels like a stranger. You miss the first girl. You miss how sure she was of herself.

Becca freezes mid-sip, glass halfway to her mouth. “What? No! You can’t,” she says, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’ve been getting so much ready -your dress, the venue, everything. You can’t just- cancel it.”

You shrug weakly, finally looking up at her. “Maybe I can.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and final at the same time.

“No, Y/n, I can’t let you throw this all away. You two went through hell this past year- it’s gotta be worth it.”

You know she means it with love. With protection. With the desperation of someone who has watched you bend yourself in half just to feel safe again. But with everything you’ve learned- everything that’s unraveling- it makes you wonder if any of it could be worth it, even if you were to walk down that aisle tomorrow.

You take a slow, shaky breath and set your palms flat on the counter, staring at the cool surface like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

“Rafe isn’t the person I thought he was.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears rise before you even feel them, the grief of betrayal hitting you all over again. You don’t look up, but you know -you know- Becca’s head tilts with confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asks softly.

You swipe quickly at the tear that slips down your cheek, angry it escaped before you were ready.

“I did something…” you breathe out, voice trembling. “Rafe hates his sister and the Pogues so much. Always has. And I always wondered why, but I never pressed it. I just… trusted him. Trusted that he’d tell me when he was ready.”

The shame burns.

“But after that small interaction with Sarah -the day I got sick at the store- it just kept nagging at me. They were kind. Confused, yeah, but kind. I couldn’t understand why he hated these sweet kids so much.”

Becca stays quiet, listening. Watching you unravel.

“I came clean to him about visiting them,” you continue, “and he blew up on me. We blew up on each other. And when he still refused to tell me anything, I went back again. Because I was scared. Because I felt like if I was marrying someone who won’t even talk to his own sister of all people, who else would he do that to?”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“JJ Maybank said something about Rafe hurting Sarah,” you whisper. “And now it’s killing me not knowing what he did. I confronted Rafe. I told him that if we were getting married -if we were having a baby- he couldn’t keep hiding this. I told him I didn’t want to marry a stranger.”

Your voice breaks fully this time.

“And he suggested we call off the wedding. He’d rather call off our own wedding than tell me the truth-” You stop when your breath catches and your chest aches from holding everything in for too long.

Becca is out of her chair within seconds. She wraps an arm around you and pulls you in, rubbing your shoulder firmly as she leans against the counter with you.

“Forget what I said,” she murmurs. “Something is seriously wrong with him. Whatever he did… it had to be pretty bad if he can’t even tell you. Especially now.”

You swallow hard, tears spilling freely. “Or he never wanted to marry me in the first place.”

It’s quiet after that. Heavy. True in a way you wish it wasn’t. Becca doesn’t try to deny it. She just holds you tighter, because she knows you’re finally saying the thoughts you were too scared to think earlier.

—

You wake up to the sour burn of nausea climbing your throat. It’s becoming routine - the kind of morning sickness that drags you out of bed before you’re even fully conscious- but today it lands harder. Maybe because your stomach already hurts for an entirely different reason.

The bathroom light is too bright.

Your reflection looks tired.

Your hands shake a little on the edge of the sink.

You rinse your mouth, splash cold water on your face, and try to steady your breathing. Behind you, down the hall, you hear the creak of the mattress as Rafe wakes up. For a moment, you freeze.

You don’t know how to look at him. Not after last night. Not after he stood in the living room and said, voice quiet and trembling, “Maybe we should… call the wedding off.”

He didn’t yell.

You didn’t either.

And somehow that made it worse.

You step out of the bathroom, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafe is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He looks up when he hears you. His eyes flicker - worry? guilt? something he won’t name - and then smooth over like he’s forcing himself neutral.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

“Hey.” You pretend your heart doesn’t crack at the sound of his.

He stands, stretching like it’s any other day, like he didn’t suggest unraveling your entire future less than twelve hours ago.

“You sick again?” he asks, stepping closer but stopping just short of touching you.

You nod. “It’s fine.”

It’s not.

None of this is fine.

But pretending feels easier than facing whatever last night meant.

He nods once - relieved you’re not pressing the issue, relieved you’re not asking him if he really meant it or why he said it - and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

“Okay.”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Do you want toast or something? I can make you something before I go in.”

Before I go in. Work.

He’s talking about work on Valentine’s Day without even realizing what day it is.

“Valentine’s Day,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.

Rafe freezes mid-step.

You see it hit him - the realization - and then you see the second thing hit him: the resignation. The quiet, heavy belief that today is already too fragile for him to try fixing.

He swallows. “Right. I… forgot.”

You give him a small smile that feels like a paper cut. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he says, barely audible. “But… I don’t want to make today worse.”

Worse. As in: already bad.

Your chest squeezes painfully. “Rafe, we don’t have to-”

“I’m not trying to be cold,” he says quickly, eyes trained on the floor. “I just… holidays aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

You nod. You do know. He’s rarely ever cared about days on the calendar  - but you thought things with you would be different. You thought being pregnant, being engaged, planning a life together would change something.

“I didn’t expect anything,” you lie.

Rafe looks up at you for just a moment, as if checking whether he should believe you. You’re both too careful, too gentle, too terrified of stepping on the wrong emotional landmine.

Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

He disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up a second later. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands pressed over your stomach.

The baby is still tiny, quiet, not yet making its presence known. But you feel the weight of it anyway - the responsibility, the future, the fear. And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines…

You feel alone.

Not abandoned.

Not unloved.

Just alone.

Like you and Rafe are standing on opposite sides of a cracked bridge, each pretending they don’t see the fracture widening beneath your feet.

-

You settle on spending Galentine’s Day with Becca and Marie - two girls who are still pretending to be cordial, even though everyone can feel the thin film of tension between them. They don’t seem to mind, though. Maybe because they’re both single. Maybe because you showed up looking like someone whose heart is sitting too high in her chest and too low in her stomach.

And honestly?

You’re grateful for the distraction.

You’re not sure what happened between Mario and Marie - they had that “cute but chaotic” energy that usually burns hot and quick. Kind of like you and Rafe, but without the engagement ring and a fetus involved.

You spend the entire morning telling Marie everything you’d already told Becca: the coldness, the silence, the way Rafe has been… different since everything happened. Since he said maybe we should call the wedding off.

Marie, being Marie, gasps dramatically and tosses a strawberry into her mimosa before taking a sip.

“You should break up with him,” she says matter-of-factly. “And the three of us will buy a private island and raise Baby Cameron in peace. Sun, sand, and no men except the bartender we hire who wears linen and calls us ‘goddess.’”

You laugh - because it’s ridiculous, because it’s Marie - but the moment the laughter fades, your chest tightens.

You would miss him. God, you would miss him in ways you don’t even want to name. Despite everything he puts you through, despite how wrong it feels right now, you know you can’t imagine your life without him. You hate that. You hate how deeply hooked your heart is, how even when you’re angry or hurt, a part of you still reaches for him in the dark.

“Earth to Y/N.” Marie’s sing-songy voice cuts clean through your spiraling.

You blink, turning your head toward her. “What?”

She points her fork at you like she’s conducting an orchestra. “I asked if you already finished your wedding dress. Because I’m pretty sure you can just sell that design to Vivienne Westwood or Mirror Palais and buy us our island.”

Becca nods. “Seriously. It’s obscene how talented you are.”

You smile- small, tight, the kind you can control. “I’m not selling it.”

“Ooh,” Marie says, wiggling her eyebrows, “sentimental.”

You take a breath and try to keep your voice light. “If… Rafe and I don’t get married…” The words scrape coming out, sharper than you expected. “I’ll just save it for my first real wedding.”

You shrug with forced nonchalance, sitting up straighter, as if posture can make grief prettier.

Becca and Marie exchange a look - one that tries not to be pitying, tries not to be worried - and for a second, you hate that they saw the crack.

But it’s Valentine’s Day. And for your first one being with him, you’re spending it imagining a future that doesn’t have Rafe Cameron in it. And the thought of that alone nearly knocks the air out of you.

The rest of the day is spent drifting through boutique racks and overpriced cafés, gossiping about nothing and everything. You try to let yourself enjoy it - the buzz of girl talk, the relief of not being in that quiet house with Rafe, the chaos that always follows Marie like perfume.

But you feel the looks. People your family knows. Old money women with soft lips and sharper eyes. Teenagers who recognize the Cameron name before they recognize you. Store managers who pretend not to stare.

It’s subtle - a fleeting raise of eyebrows, a pointed glance at your bare ring finger, an unspoken question hanging in the air: Why isn’t she with her fiancé today?

You feel it, even if no one says a word. And God. You’re not excited to tell your mother any of this. But she’ll find out sooner or later. She always does. She promised to “back off,” but you know she still texts Eve behind your back - little updates, quick questions, “just checking the schedule.”

Eve. You forgot about her.A knot twists in your stomach. You still don’t know what to do with her. With the wedding. With the fact that Rafe said maybe we should call it off in that soft, terrifying voice.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It wasn’t even anger.

It was… a suggestion. A retreat. A quiet surrender because you wouldn’t stop asking about his past.

And now the not-knowing gnaws at you.

“Do you guys want to go get drunk or what?” Marie announces, hands on her hips like she’s about to rally troops.

“I want to, real bad, but-” You point to your belly.

Marie gasps like she’s been caught in a scandal and claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I forgot about you. Sorry, queen.” She places a dramatic palm on your stomach.

You laugh. “You act like I’m incapable of having fun now.”

“You are,” Becca says dryly. “And also, why is everyone team girl? I want you to have a boy, Y/N.”

“I don’t care what I get,” you say. “I’ll be happy with whatever-” Your phone buzzes in your hand. The name on the screen makes your whole body go still. Rafe.

Both girls groan in perfect stereo from either side of you.

You shush them quickly, forcing a smile you don’t quite feel as you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

You give him your most deadpan voice - flat enough to make a point, not hostile enough to pick a fight.

“Hey…” His voice is low, tentative. You hear a breathy laugh - the kind he gives when he’s nervous or trying to make something sound casual. “I finished some work early. I, uh-” another small laugh, “-I reserved a table for us tonight. Some restaurant. I was wondering if you wanted to go?”

You blink. He’s asking you. Rafe Cameron, who used to book reservations without a second thought, who used to just say “Be ready by seven,” is asking.

Like you are the one who pulled away. Like you are the one reconsidering your life together. Like he didn’t forget Valentine’s Day existed this morning. How did he get a table so fast?

“Um… sure,” you say slowly. “I’ll be home soon to get ready.”

You hang up before he can say anything else.

Marie stares at you. “Girl, don’t tell me-”

“Yes,” you say instantly.

“Y/N…” she whispers, and for once, Marie sounds guilty - like she wants to tell you that you’re being stupid, but she won’t, because she loves you too much to say it out loud.

“If you’re going to criticize me-” you start.

“We’re not,” she cuts in quickly. “We’re just…” She exhales a long, defeated sigh and then pulls you into a hug. “Be… okay,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

You don’t realize she’s hugging you until her arms tighten. When you look over her shoulder, Becca is still standing a few feet away - arms crossed, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a straight line. You don’t dare meet her eyes.  You already know what you’ll see in them: love, worry, and the silent fear that this dinner is just another step toward breaking your own heart.

-

When you pull into the driveway, your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. You have no idea why. You’ve driven up this exact driveway a thousand times. You’ve walked into this house confidently. You’ve kissed him hello without thinking. You’ve fit into this life so easily, so naturally, that coming home never felt like a question.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

You unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing that hits you is the light.

Soft. Flickering. Warm.

Candles - dozens of them - line the entryway, tucked between roses that trail along the hallway in messy, imperfect clusters. Not florist-perfect arrangements. Not staged. Just… effort. Human, clumsy, earnest effort.

Your heart swells with every step you take. And aches a little too.

“Rafe?” you murmur, your voice catching somewhere between nervous and hopeful.

“In here,” he calls back from the sunroom - a space you never really occupy, a space that never felt like yours.

You follow the candlelit path, glancing over your shoulder repeatedly to make sure you don’t knock anything over with your bag or coat. You’re so distracted by the ridiculous romance of it that you almost forget to look ahead.

“Rafe, these candles are kind of a fire haza-”

Your sentence dies in your throat. Because you finally see him. He’s stretched out on the floor of the sunroom, propped up on one elbow, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans that make him look painfully soft, painfully earnest, painfully familiar. In front of him is an entire picnic laid out on a blanket: 

A fruit platter.

A cheese board with all your favorites.

Mini sandwiches you know he spent way too long assembling.

Sparkling water.

Chocolate-covered strawberries.

Two wine glasses - one empty, one filled with something nonalcoholic for you. It’s beautiful. It’s thoughtful. It’s the most Rafe Cameron thing he’s done in weeks. And God, it hits you all at once. It’s the Rafe Cameron you got to know and you hate that you can’t tell if this is really him or not.

Part of you feels relief - a slow, warm loosening in your chest. He’s showing up. He’s trying. He’s doing the little things, the soft things, the things you once fell in love with. But the other part of you…You don’t know what to do with it. How are you supposed to react? How do you smile and melt and breathe normally when the same man who set all this up is the one who told you last night that maybe the wedding wasn’t a good idea? Are you supposed to be happy? Grateful? Touched? Or are you supposed to wonder why the man who suggested walking away from you is now trying to romance you back into pretending nothing happened?

Your emotions twist in your stomach, tangled and heavy.

He looks up at you with a small, hopeful smile - like he’s terrified you won’t like it, like he’s terrified you won’t like him.

You stand there in the doorway with your heartbeat rattling in your chest, realizing that love shouldn’t feel this complicated.

And yet with Rafe… It always is.

“Rafe…” you breathe, sinking onto your knees across from him. The blanket is soft under you, and for a moment, your eyes catch on a perfect, glistening grape in the corner of the spread. It looks too juicy to resist - and honestly, you need ten seconds of something easy. So you reach out, pluck it from the vine, and pop it into your mouth.

Rafe smirks, smug in a quiet, boyish way - like he takes your eating as proof that his plan is working.

You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Small talk. Thank him. Go to bed. That was the plan.

You swallow. “What is this?”

“I- Valentine’s Day.” He says it so simply, so casually, like it explains everything.

You pause. “You didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did.” He plucks a grape of his own and tosses it into his mouth. “You’re my fiancée.”

Your heart stutters. What in the world is happening? Whose reality is he living in? You take a slow breath, gathering the courage you’d been rehearsing all day. The question forms in your mouth like a bruise.

“…Do you want me to be?” His face twists in confusion, eyebrows knitting. You push forward before he can deflect. “I mean- you just suggested we call off our wedding, Rafe. I can’t ignore that. I need to know where you stand because I can’t just pretend we didn’t have a screaming match a few days ago and that was the conclusion you jumped to.”

His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sagging. “I-” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding out of him. “I think we started moving too fast.”

Despite all your internal preparation, something inside you cracks. Just slightly. Just enough to hurt. But he isn’t done.

“I mean…it hasn’t even been a full year since we started hooking up. Not even dating, like- officially. And now we’re doing wine tastings like that’s something normal people do.”

He gestures vaguely at the food spread, still avoiding eye contact, as if looking at you might make everything real.

Your throat tightens. “I wasn’t the one who proposed.”

“I know,” he murmurs quickly, painfully. “I know. That’s on me. I just think we need- maybe- another year to feel things out. To really understand-”

A hollow laugh escapes you. Bitter, sharp. A tear falls before you even feel it forming. You wipe it with your sleeve, embarrassed.

“Yes. Because everything runs on Rafe Cameron’s time.” The sarcasm spills out before you can stop it.

“Y/N-” His sigh is heavy and tired. “Don’t start, okay? I’m trying to figure out something that works for both of us.”

“Yes,” you snap. “You get another year of not having to be a husband, and I get another year of not knowing who you actually are.”

You’re already standing, the blanket wrinkling beneath you. Reflexively, you turn toward the hallway and begin blowing out candles, one by one, your movements clipped and angry.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, following you. “That’s not why I said it. I’m not trying to bail- I just- every time we try to settle into something normal, it falls apart. Something blows up. If we get married now, it’s going to get old fast and one or both of us will end up wanting a divorce.”

You spin around sharply, the flame of the last candle flickering beside you. Your voice is steady- deadly steady.

“I’ll be a single mom. You can be the hottest bachelor on the OBX again. Boom. You get exactly what you’ve been acting like you want.”

The words hang between you - heavy, painful, honest. And for the first time since you walked through the door… Rafe looks scared.

“I don’t want to break up with you. You’re not fucking listening to me.” His voice cracks open, the last edges of restraint snapping as he follows you into the kitchen. The frustration isn’t simmering anymore- it’s spilling, hot and sharp, every step behind you echoing with it.

“I’m fully aware of what you’re trying to say.” You whip around, your words slicing the space between you. “Rafe, I’m not a fucking idiot. But since you’re Rafe Cameron, go ahead- enlighten me.” Your voice rises, bitter and trembling. “Because apparently no one else knows anything. Rafe Cameron is the only one who understands. Rafe Cameron is the most important person on earth-” You slam your palm onto the counter hard enough to sting.

He flinches. “Calm down. I never said any of that—”

“Oh, you don’t have to say it.” Your laugh is humorless, scraped raw. 

“Everything-everything- is on your time. We started hooking up on your time. We started dating on your time. When we broke up the first time? That was because you didn’t want to support me.” Your voice cracks but you push through it. “When you proposed, you didn’t even consider if I wanted it. You did it because you decided it was time.”

Your throat tightens, but every word feels like truth you’ve been holding underwater for months.

“And now our wedding? It’s not happening because of you. Our relationship? All of it? Every direction, every decision- all you. Everything is always you.”

You straighten, shoulders rolling back, a steadiness you don’t actually feel rising inside you. You step toward him. He’s breathing hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he’s bracing for impact.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” Your voice drops, quiet but lethal. “I’m going to give you the power to make one last decision.”

His nostrils flare.

“If you want to cancel our wedding on the date we have set, then be my guest.” Your chin lifts. “But if you cancel it- we’re done. Not ‘let’s slow down.’ Not ‘let’s take a break.’ Not fiancé, not boyfriend, nothing.” Your stomach lurches; the words are out before you can stop them. You regret them instantly. But they’re out in the open now, living things. “If you don’t want this, then you don’t get me. At all.”

He shakes his head, scoffing in disbelief. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m not,” you shoot back. “I’m giving you what you seem to want- more control. One more thing to decide, since you’ve practically been running this entire relationship from day one.”

You step back, turning to leave before your voice can break. And then-

A crack that sounds like a gunshot.

You jump as the drywall beside you caves inward, plaster dust floating in the air like ash. Rafe’s fist is buried in the wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged, furious breaths.

For a moment, the only sound in the entire house is the faint crumble of drywall hitting the floor.

Then he pulls his hand back, knuckles bleeding, and looks at you like he’s seeing you -and losing you- all in the same breath.

And you have no idea which one of you is going to walk away first.

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