PAIRING: Latina!Reader x Rafe Cameron
WARNINGS: 18+, eventual smut, slow burn angst, emotional vulnerability, established relationship growing pains, rafe’s unhealed trauma, codependency, substance use (alcohol), fighting, makeup sex
(honestly this has been sitting in my drafts and i’ve decided its tiem to finally clear my drafts😓)
The first month after he chose you was a dream.
He showed up at your apartment at 7 AM with coffee and a smile that reached his eyes for the first time since you'd known him. He took you to dinner in public, his hand on your lower back, his thumb tracing circles against your spine. He introduced you to people as my girlfriend and watched your face light up like he'd just handed you the moon.
You thought that was the hard part. You thought him choosing you was the finish line.
The first fight happened on a Tuesday.
You'd come over to Tannyhill after work, letting yourself in with the key he'd given you. The house was quiet, too quiet. You found him in the study, a glass of bourbon in his hand, staring at a wall of old photographs.
He didn't turn around. "Hey."
You walked up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist. He went stiff for a second before relaxing into you. "What are you looking at?"
But you saw it. A photo of him and his mom, taken before she got sick. He was maybe twelve, smiling wide, his arm slung around her shoulder. No tension in his jaw. No darkness behind his eyes. Just a kid who didn't know what was coming yet.
You didn't say anything. You just held him tighter.
"I don't know how to do this," he said finally, his voice barely a whisper. "Be with someone. Not fuck it up."
"You're not fucking it up."
"Not yet." He pulled away, turned to face you. His eyes were red-rimmed. "But I will. I always do. You're gonna wake up one day and realize you made a mistake, and I'm gonna be right back where I started, alone, with nothing."
"I mean it." His voice cracked. "I'm not— I don't have anything to offer you. I'm a fucking disaster. My dad still looks at me like I'm a disappointment. I have no real friends. I—" He stopped, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Why would you stay?"
You stepped forward, took his hands, pulled them away from his face. "Because I see you. All of you. The ugly parts too. And I'm still here."
He kissed you like he was drowning.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, messy, his hands fisting in your shirt, pulling you against him. He walked you backward until your legs hit the desk, then he lifted you onto it, standing between your thighs, his forehead pressed to yours.
"I don't deserve you," he breathed.
"Then prove me wrong." You tugged at his collar, pulling him closer. "Show me you can do this. Show me you can let me in."
He nodded, his breath shaky. "I'll try."
Trying looked like progress. Then it looked like falling backward.
He was better for a while. Softer. He'd text you good morning and good night. He'd ask about your day and actually listen. He'd hold you on the couch without it leading anywhere, just his fingers tracing patterns on your arm, your head on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear.
But Rafe Cameron didn't know how to sit still in happiness. He didn't trust it.
So he started picking fights.
Small things at first. You left the bathroom light on. You took too long getting ready. You laughed too loud at something Topper said. He'd snap, then apologize, then snap again. Each time, you'd forgive him. Each time, you'd tell yourself it was the adjustment period, that he was learning, that change wasn't linear.
Then you found the baggie.
It was tucked inside his nightstand drawer, underneath a stack of old receipts. You weren't snooping; you'd been looking for a charger—but your hand brushed against it, and you knew immediately what it was.
You were still holding it when he walked in from the shower, a towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest. He stopped when he saw your face. Saw what was in your hand.
"Don't." Your voice was shaking. "Don't lie to me."
He ran a hand through his wet hair. "It's old. From before. I forgot it was there."
"I swear." He crossed the room, took your face in his hands. His eyes were wide, earnest, desperate. "I haven't touched it. I haven't even thought about it. I was gonna throw it out, I just— I forgot."
You searched his face for the lie. You didn't find one.
But you'd learned, over the months of loving him, that Rafe Cameron could lie with his whole chest. Could look you dead in the eye and tell you the sky was green. Could convince himself of his own bullshit.
"Swear it," you said. "Swear on your mother."
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Regret. But he didn't hesitate.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. He pulled you into his chest, his arms tight around you, his face buried in your hair.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I'm so fucked up."
"Just—" Your voice broke. "Just let me in, Rafe. Stop hiding from me. I can't help you if you won't let me see you."
He was quiet for a long time. Then, so soft you almost missed it:
"I'm scared you'll leave when you really see me."
You pulled back, looked up at him. His eyes were wet. Vulnerable. Like a kid who'd been told one too many times that he wasn't enough.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said. "But you have to stop testing me to see if I will."
He didn't test you after that. Not for a while.
He told you about his mom—really told you. About watching her fade, about the way Ward had checked out emotionally, about how he'd had to be the man of the house at fourteen. About the first time he tried coke, at a party on Figure Eight, how it made the noise in his head go quiet for the first time in years.
He cried when he told you. Great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body. And you held him through it, your hand in his hair, your voice soft and steady.
"I've got you," you whispered. "I've got you."
That night, he made love to you like you were something holy.
Slow. Tender. His hands mapping every inch of your skin, his mouth tracing patterns on your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your hip. He whispered your name like a prayer, over and over, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mixing with yours.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice wrecked. "So fucking beautiful. I don't— I can't believe you're mine."
You pulled him down, kissed him deep, let your legs wrap around his waist. He moved inside you slow, deep, his hands cupping your face, his eyes locked on yours.
"Tell me you're mine," he breathed.
"I'm yours, Rafe. Always."
He buried his face in your neck, his body shuddering as he came, and you held him through it, your nails raking gently down his back, your lips pressed to his temple.
Afterward, he didn't pull away. He stayed inside you, his weight on top of you, his face tucked into your shoulder. His breathing was ragged, uneven.
"I love you," he said. So quiet you almost missed it.
He pulled back, looked at you. His eyes were red, vulnerable, terrified. "I love you. I've loved you for so long. I was just too scared to say it."
Tears slipped down your cheeks. "I love you too."
He kissed you again, softer this time. Like a promise.
But promises, you'd learn, were fragile things in Rafe Cameron's hands.
A/N: i honestly didn’t know how to end this😭😭 i might make it into a fic, but pleasepleaseplease leave suggestions!!! they help so muchhh
