#rafe and sofia

࣪ ִֶָ☾.࣪࿐doe eyed distraction✴︎˚｡ꨄ︎

after rafe gets back from morocco, he’s desperate to win back his favourite drug , not proof read.

“You gotta- Sof you gotta understand me.”

Rafe stands in front of Sofia, the blazing sun from earlier that day faded with time, leaving behind pink-toned clouds and a light orange wash that veiled over the cut.

His eyes desperately trail over her face, watching her soft features contort as she thinks. His own jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically with impatience.

It’s been weeks since Rafe called her, and unhesitatingly kicked her out of his house.

‘God after everything I did for you? We’re done. Done.’

The words had done everything to worsen the already immeasurable amount of guilt she felt ever since she stepped foot onto Hollis’s boat. Ever since she took that money.

‘You think the kooks are gonna give you anything? You should get what you can, while you can.’

Hollis was right. The kooks were never gonna give Sofia the time of day, besides Rafe, and even he was too ashamed to admit they’re together.

‘I’m not- living with a pouge, I have standards.’

He deserved it, she thought, a taste of his own medicine for once.

So why was this making her feel even worse? Him standing in front of her, pleading for her back even despite her betrayal?

“Baby, baby look. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t- I love you. I didn’t mean anything by it it’s- it’s Topper and shit they make me…make me say shit I don’t mean.”

She watches his hands flail around the space surrounding him as he speaks, then go back to his chest before falling to his sides, defeated, as he finishes.

His nails dig into his palms, deep enough to leave clear indents, though not deep enough to draw blood. He did that a lot, she’d noticed. Inflict minor physical pain on himself in restraint, or guilt, or whatever negative emotion was coursing through his veins at the time, simmering under his skin and mixing with every fibre of his being until it either slowly faded or consumed him entirely.

Sofia helped with that feeling. That typically irrepressible amount of shame or anger that clouded his amygdala and his prefrontal cortex until the only physical way to get rid of it was through snorting that familiar white power into his nose, savouring the burn that could either calm him or make his poorly suppressed fury ten times worse.

He needed the different high that Sofia brought to him, one without the mental and physical damage, one without the self disgust. Sofia made all his pain go away for a while, she was a distraction. A beautiful, doe-eyed distraction. He needed her.

He repressed the urge to step forward, back her up against the brick wall, take her pretty face in his hands and kiss her senseless in the middle of the street, and she’d respond so well, running her fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck or draping her arms around his shoulders to connect behind his head.

Rafe knew Sofia would give in eventually. His begging and pleading highlighting his pathetic nature that resurfaces whenever he’s denied the approval and forgiveness he so deeply craves. The pathetic nature that Sofia is weak to once it properly comes out.

He knew she would give in eventually, because she always does. She’ll work up the courage to stand up to him when he disrespects her, and days, if not hours later she’ll find herself tangled in his sheets again, lying atop his sweaty chest that rapidly rises and falls with the evidence of what they had just done. He’d kiss the top of her head, and whisper about how good she did and how pretty she was, and he’d continue on like nothing bad ever happened.

The only question in his mind was when? When would she forgive him? How long would it take her this time? The longest she was able to stretch herself to before was 2 weeks, and that ended the exact same way it always does. In his Queen bed with the soft white sheets, far softer than her bobbly ones at home.

Sofia crosses her arms over her tucked in white polo, her forearm covering the light blue country club logo sewn into it. She exhales a sharp breath, looking down and then to her left, not letting her eyes meet the blue ones in front of her. “Why would you say that, then? If you didn’t mean it.”

Rafe fiddles with the ring on his left hand, glancing down at where it sits on his middle finger before focusing his gaze on her, “I told you it’s Ruthie-“

Sofia cuts him off, “Ruthie didn’t make you say anything. Rafe.”

He exhales, lifting his hand to rub at the back of his neck before raising it to gesture towards her, “Look it didn’t mean anything, alright? I proposed to you, I gave you my mother’s ring. You think that means nothing to me?” his gaze falls to her hand.

She follows his line of sight, where the ring is in-fact, still on her finger. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t taken it off yet, left it on the counter when she’d packed up and left. The cushion-cut diamond lay embedded in the gold, which glimmered with every little shift of her hand.

He warily takes a step towards her, putting his hands slightly in front of him as if to come off as less of a threat, “You know I love you, baby. C’mon.”

She drops her arms to her sides as she notices him moving closer, she doesn’t reach for him. She doesn’t step away either.

She takes in his face. The sharp start of his slightly grown out buzzcut, the way his jaw is tightened, his eyes piercing in the evening sun.

Her eyes trail down to his chest, looking over the way his cream-coloured shirt tightens at the chest every time he breathes, and the way the short sleeves are just barely too small, pressing into his biceps uncomfortably.

Sofia wasn’t weak. That’s what she’d been telling herself ever since she overheard him talking to Ruthie and Topper. She has respect for herself. She does. So in determination to prove that, to him as-well as herself, her right hand slowly rises up to the other, and she begins to take off the gold engagement band, slipping it off her finger with shaky hands, almost reluctantly.

Rafe’s eyes widen, the tiniest bit, unnoticeable unless you were specifically looking. Sofia was supposed to forgive him. She always forgave him, and now she was taking off her ring? The last physical tie he had to her?

He takes another step closer to her, now close enough to touch, and carefully places his hands over hers just as the ring slips off her fingertip, “Sofia.”

She meets his eyes for the first time as he addresses her, the bright blue looks darker now with more proximity. Her own are glazed slightly, the hazel appearing light brown as she looks up at him.

Rafe slowly takes the ring out of her right hand, not breaking eye contact with her as he slowly slips it back onto her ring finger.

She lets a stray tear fall, using her spare hand to wipe it away, which doesn’t do much good as another multitude of tears begin to streak down her face, smudging her brown mascara.

He finishes placing the ring back where it belongs, before bringing his hands up to cup her face, wiping at the tears on her cheeks, which just spreads her mascara further around.

She allows his hands to envelope her face, bringing her own up to rest on his forearms, her orange-painted nails digging in to the tan skin there, “Rafe I don’t…”

He leans down, bringing his face just an inch away from hers. His hot breath fans over her face lightly as he speaks, “It’s okay, yeah? I love you. Promise.”

He closes the distance, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth, savouring the way her hands move to cradle the back of his head, like they had hundreds of times before.

He knew she would forgive him. Rafe Cameron fucks up a lot, it’s who he is, and it’s most likely who he will always be.

But as long as he always has someone to forgive him when he does, he’ll be fine, he thinks. And he’ll do anything to keep that sweet internal validation she gives him.

Somewhere along the line they make their way to the hood of Rafe’s car, where he lifts her up to sit on it, her legs wrapping around his hips lazily as the kiss continues.

Sofia’s lips trail down his jaw, reaching his neck and leaving soft kisses there that would probably leave red marks later on. He lets himself melt into it for a second, before suddenly remembering the fact they are in the middle of the cut when he makes long eye contact with a man walking across the street, who gives him an amused nod.

He quickly takes a step away, looking down at her sat on his car.

She looks up at him, cocking her head to the side, “What?” and he exhales at the way her pretty eyes drop in disappointment.

He keeps looking around for a moment, a subtle shake to his head as he notices the plethora of small homes lining the sidewalk, all of which have windows, “Nothing baby, just- come, get in the car.” he nods towards the car doors.

She jumps down to the concrete floor, her sneakers making a quiet scraping sound as she does.

He quickly grabs her waist and unlocks the car, practically pushing her onto the seat as he opens the door.

An hour or so later, Rafe lays on the expensive leather in the backseat of his white Mercedes, Sofia half asleep sprawled over him.

The sky is dark now, the soft sunset faded into harsh blues and blacks behind the bright stars.

He runs his hand slowly up and down her spine, tracing the soft, now slightly sticky skin there. Her arms rest crossed on his chest, using them as a pillow.

A sense of pride runs through him at her dazed state, knowing that he was the one to do it to her. He leans down to kiss the side of her head, over her messy brown hair.

He feels better than he has in a while, smug relief coursing through his bloodstream, a high far better than anything he could ever smoke, or snort, or inject.

This was physical, real. Not like the baggies that Barry used to sell to him, that was simply a chemical reaction in his brain that lasted barely an hour and left him feeling even worse.

This feels infinite, and he relishes in the fact that he could wake her up and ask her to go again, and she would, and he’d face no repercussions, and he’d feel even better. He relishes in the fact that nobody could take this from him, that he can actually feel her on top of him, her skin on his.

Summary: Exgirlfriend!reader lives with S4!rafe. She constantly has to watch rafe treat someone better and it finally gets to her.

Part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5

Everytime I see this very interesting opinion that "Rafe needs to be with a baddie" and the lousy opinion that "they neutered Rafe's character for Sofia" i remember the last thing Rafe himself said to Ward at the end of s2

"I'm going to be a better man"

You see, for all the vile things Rafe did, it was not because he was just a raging serial killer (he does have slight sociopathic tendencies, but i digress). He wanted to show Ward, the one person Rafe spent all his life trying to appeal and do anything to get his respect that he is worthy of Wards love and would do anythingfor it. He drowned Sarah not out of just spontaneity but rather it was a chain reaction to Ward favoring Sarah. Everything he did was a cry for help that someone will look at him for what he is: a lonely man who desperately needs someone who will love him and listen to him. I feel like Sarah tried to be that person and even Wheezie to that extent (this is more of a headcannon) but maybe we will see Rafe and the rest of the Pogues childhood in the upcoming season so maybe i will come back to this point.

At a party, it might be an offhand comment that reaches his ears. At the country club, sometimes it’s just the way someone looks at him. For as long as Sofia’s known him, she’s watched him walk that fine line between being the life of the party and the next, ready to dish out punishment like it’s his personal right.

And sure, she tries her best to talk him down. To remind him not to let the whispers get to him or just take a fucking breath. He rarely listens.

Sofia knows the rumors. She’s heard them working at the club when he strolls in with a scotch in hand, Topper and Kelce or whoever else at his side. She feels the judgmental stares when she walks in on his arm at Kook parties. She hears the too loud comments, the ones meant for her, about how she must get off on dating the son of a killer.

Sometimes she even thinks about leaving. As much as she’s come to really like Rafe, she’s of course weighed her options.

She’s a Pogue, and there are plenty of other Pogues on the island she could be with. Or she could leave Kildare altogether, take out some loans, and finally go to college like she once dreamed. But every time she gets close to deciding, something pulls her back in. Rafe’s little smiles when he’s in a good mood. The quiet jokes that are meant only for her. How his fingers brush her wrist or her knee when his friends surround them is a physical reminder she’s not always invisible to him. Not always. And then the unexpected gifts of chocolates, flowers, and jewelry doesn’t hurt.

It all culminates to her staying. Every time.

But everyone has a limit, regardless of how much you tell yourself you can take more.

And for her it happens one night in the thick of summer.

It starts out with Rafe promising a low-key evening, dinner at the new Italian place near the club, maybe a quick nightcap at the bar, then back to his. She’s all for it. Just them. Something she feels they’ve had less and less of lately, with him off making deals and dragging her into whatever party his friends are throwing.

And then they run into Kelce.

Within minutes, the plan’s gone. There’s a party at the boneyard instead.

“Rafe…” she mutters, her annoyance slipping through.

“We’ll leave soon.” The words are clipped, almost impatient, and she’s too used to hearing them. She’s thought before that if any other guy spoke back to her like that, she’d have been gone long ago. But with Rafe? She still follows like a shadow, and not because she has to but because, every time, she still chooses to.

The night air is sharp with salt, the breeze littering goosebumps along her bare arms. She crosses them over her chest, tugging the hem of her dress lower. Topper offers her a red solo cup smelling sweet and pungent. She shakes her head. Rafe plucks it and drinks instead, tossing it back without hesitation.

“Why are you being so pissy?” he murmurs thirty minutes later.

“What?” She looks up, arms wrapped around herself, brows knitting.

“If you didn’t want to come, you didn’t have to.” It’s a quiet hiss before his public smile snaps into place, smooth and practiced. His eyes stay cool if not a little glassy.

She puts space between them after that, hugging herself tighter. Confused.

Rafe gets more touchy when he’s been drinking, and with his friends egging him on, he’s well on his way to buzzed and they haven’t even been here an hour.

Her gaze roams the group: the jeers, the meaningless chatter, the cutting jokes about people who aren’t here to defend themselves. Ruthie holds court, bragging about the latest “best thing” in her life, while Topper and Rafe crack up over some old story like it just happened. Sofia’s sure she’s heard it before, maybe three times, in different states of inebriation.

At this point, she could tell it herself.

When some drunk Kook, part of the crowd but so far removed from Rafe’s circle, decides to let his mouth run. Loud enough for everyone to hear, he suggests Ward Cameron was “taken care of” for what he did, like someone planned the old patriarch’s demise as payback for other sins.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Rafe spits the words in the guys face.

“You heard me.” The guy, level with Rafe, wears a satisfied, drunk smirk.

“I wanted to hear you say it with your full chest.” Rafe’s voice is low, teeth bared, both of them stepping closer.

This will end badly. Sofia can feel it.

“Rafe, don’t.” Her fingers wrap around his forearm, tugging gently, trying to break his focus.

He shakes her off without looking, still locked on the smug idiot. She stumbles back, hurt, irritation looming just under her skin. Topper meets her eyes briefly, his own full of the same unease, and grabs at Rafe’s arm.

And that’s when it clicks—Rafe lets Topper hold him back. Doesn’t shake him off.

He’d always claim to her that she was the only one who could reach him, talk him down. And suddenly she understands it isn’t that she can’t reach him.

It’s that he only listens when he decides she matters. When it fucking matters, it wasn’t her he listened to. It never has been.

Something sharp slices through her.

She feels small. Like a ghost, only materializing when he wants her there.

No matter how many nights she’s lain in his bed after his dad died, letting him bury his face in her shoulder, his grief warm and damp against her collarbone. No matter how many times she’s bared herself for him, her body his to take when he wants. It’s like he forgets the easy banter, the smirks, the way he looks at her like she’s the only one in the room when it’s just them.

Maybe that’s the problem.

But then it happens. The few words slurred to perfection, tipped with a smirk.

“What’s it like living in his shadow?”

It’s not even a full second before Rafe’s on him. A fist in the guy’s shirt, knuckles bone-white, dragging him forward until their foreheads almost touch. Rafe’s jaw is locked, his face twisted in fury so raw the air feels thinner.

The guy grins once before swinging. His punch glances off Rafe’s cheek, enough to bruise him, and enough to cut the last thread holding Rafe back.

They hit the sand hard, a cloud of it puffing around them. Legs tangle, bodies roll, the dull thud of fists on bone cutting through the bass from someone’s speaker. Rafe’s on top one moment, then they’re sideways, each trying to wrench free. The other guy’s sloppy, his breathing ragged and he’s losing, and that only seems to make Rafe go harder, breathless curses spilling between grunts.

Topper’s in there now, yelling Rafe’s name, trying to drag him off. Kelce somewhere in between. Topper’s grip slips for half a second, just long enough for Rafe to lunge forward again. Someone hauls the other guy back, but Rafe’s still straining forward, eyes wild, like the fight’s still happening inside his head.

The pull to go to him is almost physical. To cup his jaw, check the damage, be the one he looks at, but it hurts more to imagine what comes after.

So she turns.

Her legs carry her toward the parking lot, toward the dark stretch of road that leads home. The commotion fades behind her, replaced by the steady sound of her own footsteps and the thud of her pulse.

It feels wrong and right all at once. And she knows this has to be her last straw. Her last last straw.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking, arms locked around herself, holding everything in. She doesn’t know how to feel without feeling too much. Without wanting too much to turn around and go back to him, to the mess, to all of it.

She can’t.
She shouldn’t.

“Sofia.”

His voice is urgent, frayed at the edges. She glances over as he coasts alongside her, the glow of a distant streetlight catching his confusion only briefly.

She keeps walking.

Maybe he’ll drive away. Forget her.
Secretly, she knows she’d shatter if he did, but perhaps it would be better. For both of them.

She’s not that lucky.

“Sofia, what the fuck are you doing?” His voice presses through the open window, the slow crunch of tires matching her pace.

Please forget me. Please.

Instead, he guns forward just enough to throw it in park a hundred feet ahead. He meets her on the sidewalk, blocking her path, breathing harder than he should from such a short walk.

She tries—and fails—not to look at him.

His blue eyes flicker over her face, searching for the why behind her actions.

“Baby.” His hand comes up to cup her cheek, the metallic tang of blood hitting her sense of smell before the warmth of his skin. “What’s wrong?”

Make him mad or placate him?

“Nothing.”

His fingers twitch against her skin, frustration in the slight pressure under her ear. Her heartbeat trips, but she keeps her hands to herself.

“I’m just tired. I wanna go home.”

He knows she’s lying. She can see it, the distrust tightening in his gaze. Still, he doesn’t argue, just shifts his weight, his jaw shifting under the skin. Her eyes trace the lines of damage from the cut above his brow to the angry flush on his cheekbone and lastly the dried blood at his nostril.

He looks like shit.

“Please just get in. I’ll take you home.”

No more words. He turns and stalks back to the driver’s seat.

She could keep walking. She should. But he asked… nicely.

Her steps are slow as she moves toward the car, pulling lightly at the passenger door to open and sliding in. The seatbelt clicks into place under his silent stare.

It would be easier if he forgot her, the way he sometimes does in a crowd. It would be easier if she could fade into the background and let him keep going without her.

Nothing’s easy lately.

The beach drifts into view through the windshield, moonlight casting pale shadows across the waves as they crash lazily against the shore. They don’t talk. Just his steady, heavier breathing and her own never-ending internal dilemma to keep her company.

Then his hand grazes her knee.

Sofia snaps out of her trance. His fingers ghost upward, slow and deliberate, until they rest on her thigh. His knuckles are raw and swollen, a few cuts slicing over his middle finger where his ring must have caught. Blood is crusted in the creases.

Her fingertips skim his in return, testing. His hand flexes gently on her leg as she runs her thumb beneath the rough bridge of his knuckles.

This was always the trap. He’d bleed, and she’d forget why she wanted to leave in the first place.

She glances up just as he eases off the gas. Tannyhill’s silhouette fills the windshield.

“Why did you bring me here?” Her voice is steady, almost flat.

“I said I’d take you home. I just didn’t clarify whose.” His attempt at lightness lands short.

She can walk home. It’s not like she hasn’t before. His hand tightens on her thigh, not painful enough to hurt, but enough to hold her there.

“Just come inside.”

And she does. She follows like a puppy, hating herself a little for it. He never dragged her back, that was the worst part. Staying was always her decision. Willingly following Rafe as if he held some imaginary reward for her good behavior.

It’s quiet in the house. Dark. The recessed lights over the kitchen island flick on, making her blink against the sudden glare.

Rafe leans against the opposite side, the counter a deliberate barrier between them. Feet away. Only far enough to keep her from forgetting why she walked away in the first place.

She takes the lead, at least in keeping them disconnected. If they stay this far apart, maybe he’ll let her leave without a fight. She wants him to let her go. That would be easier than letting him keep her on the string.

His eyes track her in the light, scanning her face like he’s trying to decode the coldness in her gaze, the disinterest in her body language. In truth, she’s been moving toward this for a while. He just finally gave her the reason to act on it.

But he doesn’t react the way she expects. No questions. No accusations. No small talk designed to skate right over the fact she walked away from him tonight. His silence throws her off kilter.

So she studies him back.

His grey t-shirt is rumpled, spattered with a few drops of blood along the collar and sleeve, his sweater must’ve been forgotten in the back seat of his car. The rawness of his cut stares at her like a billboard advertising his impulsiveness. The welt blooming across his cheek to back it up. He just watches her with that same unblinking stillness.

Eerie.

Rafe wipes under his nose with the back of his injured hand and she catches the flicker of pain as his jaw tightens. He tries to conceal the wince that slips through but that coupled with the twitch of his brow, she clocks it easily. He sets the injured hand back on the counter, carefully.

That’s what decides it for her. A choice she’ll have to decide later if she regrets.

She pushes away from the island, her steps slow, his eyes following her like a predator’s. She’s seen him size people up like this before, deciding if they’re friend or foe. He’s never done it to her. At least not that she’s ever noticed. Until now.

When she reaches him, she takes his injured hand gently, lifting it toward her for a better look. His arm follows without resistance.

Her exhale is soft but shaky. There’s pity in it, whether she likes it or not. His fingers curl around her palm when she traces the skin again, the same way she did in the car.

With it cleaned and wrapped properly, the knuckles will just bruise, and the cuts will heal fast. She hates herself for knowing exactly where he keeps the first aid kit, for leading him into his en-suite bathroom like she’s done this too many times before. She chastises herself for silently guiding him to sit on the edge of the tub.

His “kit” is a mess. Just half-open boxes of antiseptic wipes and mismatched bandages haphazardly tossed in a plastic dollar-store bin that’s always been shoved to the back of the cabinet. For someone with money to buy the most high-end medical gear, this is the same normalcy you’d find in the Cut.

It humanizes him. She hates that it does.

She hates the way he shifts his legs so she fits between them. The way he tips his head back without hesitation when she prompts his chin up, letting her clean the blood from his skin. She hates how his hand finds hers when she works over his knuckles. She hates the faint curve of his mouth as she focuses on the task.

Most of all, Sofia despises how easily she’s falling back in when she was so close to getting out.

While she focuses on wrapping his hand, his other slides to her waist, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests warm at her back. It’s not a hard grip, but it pins her there all the same. If she wants out, she’ll have to peel herself away from him.

“Sofia.”

She keeps her head down, lips pressed tight, focusing on the neat spiral of the bandage.

His voice drops. “Sof.”

She swallows before looking up. “What?”

“Where are you?”

The question trips her at first. She’s here. In his bathroom. But the longer it hangs there, the more she hears what he’s really asking. Where are you in your head? Where are you in this with me?

The truth is, she doesn’t know.

She thought she was done. And that walking away tonight was her line in the sand. But now she’s found herself here, patching him up like nothing happened, and the certainty of her decision started leaking out of her long before, without her even caring to pinpoint it. Now she’s stuck between the version of herself that was ready to leave and the one that can’t seem to let go.

Or maybe… maybe she doesn’t want to.

“Sof?” His hand shifts against her waist, a light squeeze meant to pull her back to him. It’s supposed to be affectionate. To her, it feels like quicksand, soft at first, but pulling her under. She’s disappointed in herself for thinking she’d ever be strong enough to leave. For knowing it’s the smart thing to do but not being able to commit to it.

“I can’t do this anymore, Rafe.”

Her actions may not be complying, but she’s glad her words are. It’s all she’s got at this point.

His brows knit, eyes darting between hers like he’s trying to read something hidden. “You can’t do what?”

She swallows, then steps back, prying herself gently from his hold. His hand drops to his knee, his gaze sharpening. She can almost hear the gears turning in his head.

“This,” she says, her voice tighter now. “This isn’t healthy. For either of us.”

“What are you on?” He rises like he’s going to close the space between them.

“Don’t.”

He stops, but the twitch in his jaw betrays the effort it takes. He lowers himself back onto the tub’s edge, shoulders tight.

“You want to leave me?”

She hates that it isn’t an accusation. It’s just a question, almost quietly so. Accusations are easier. You can fight an accusation.

“No—”

“Then what the fuck are you saying right now?” His voice spikes, the words ricocheting off the tile. “Why are you doing this?”

Her pulse is still faintly pounding in her ears, but she forces herself to look straight at him. His bathroom feels too small now, the air too thick.

“You really want to know?” she says, her voice steadier than she feels.

“Yeah,” he shoots back, but there’s a crack under it.

“Because I’m tired, Rafe. I’m tired of feeling like I’m on standby. I’m either the person you lean on when everything’s falling apart or the one you pretend doesn’t exist when you’re playing king of the Kooks.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t cut in. She presses on before she can lose her nerve.

“I walk into a room with you and feel like I’m an afterthought until you decide I’m not. And I— fuck… I keep letting it happen.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, eyes flashing between frustration and something else… something… softer. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see the way they look at you? The shit they say? I’m trying to protect you.”

“By pushing me away?” she says, sharper now. “Because that doesn’t feel like protection. That just makes me disposable.”

His head drops for a second, shoulders rolling with a deep breath. “I’m scared,” he admits finally, voice low. “I’m scared if I make it clear how much I care, they’ll use it against me. Against you. And I can’t handle that.”

She swallows, the sting behind her eyes almost enough to undo her. “I can’t keep paying for your fear, Rafe. Not when it costs me this much.”

The silence between them is thick, but it’s not the cold kind. Instead it’s heavy with the weight of everything they’ve both been avoiding. His eyes meet hers again, and for the first time tonight, there’s no performance in them that she can tell.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says simply.

“I’m not yours to lose,” she retorts. “Not when I am barely yours in the first place.”

The tension is thick as he stares at her, but his focus isn’t steady—his gaze flickers past her like he’s trying to work out what to say without setting her running.

“I won’t stop you,” he says finally.

Her eyes narrow. “What?”

He exhales, jaw ticking, “From walking away.”

It’s not selfless. She can hear it in the way his voice edges tight, like part of him hopes saying it will make her stay.

“So you’re just… fine with me walking out?” she asks, arms crossing.

“No. I’m not fine with it.” He shifts his weight, restless. “But I don’t want to make it worse by—” He gestures vaguely, like even he doesn’t want to say it “—grabbing at you. Starting another scene.”

Her brow lifts. “Maybe don’t start fighting at all. Has that ever crossed your mind?”

His mouth twists, and for a second she sees the flash of defensiveness, the knee-jerk comeback he wants to give. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, he looks down at his wrapped hand, flexes it once.

“I know I go too far,” he admits, voice low. “Half the time I don’t even think, I just—” He cuts himself off, teeth clicking shut. “It’s not good. I know it’s not good.”

“You think?” she says, dry.

His eyes lift back to hers. “I don’t like the way you looked at me tonight.”

She blinks. “What way is that?”

“Like you were already gone.”

Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t let him see it. “That’s because I was deciding if I should be.”

That hits. He swallows, shifts his weight again. “I’m not promising I’ll turn into some calm, reasonable guy. But I can… try not to be the one you have to walk away from.”

The tension is thick as he stares at her. But his eyes aren’t quite on her—they’re somewhere just past her, like he’s turning her words over in his head.

“If you walk out right now… I won’t chase you. Not this time.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a thread of defeat woven through it. “I won’t give you another reason to hate me.”

She crosses her arms, holding herself steady. “And what if it isn’t what I want?”

She can’t help it. The pull she has to stay is always there. It lingers like a shadow behind her always. In a perfect world, she should leave every time.

It lands. Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes again, his jaw flexing. “I know I make it harder than it has to be. I know I get—” He breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I get angry, I go too far. I don’t think.”

Her pulse starts to slow, but she doesn’t let up. “It’s not just the fighting, Rafe. It’s the way you think you can smooth it over later with a few words and something shiny.”

He looks at her then, really looks, and it’s the first time tonight his eyes have held no defense, no performance. “I don’t want to be that guy for you. I don’t want you to feel like I’m a risk every time we walk into a room.”

“Then don’t be.”

It’s quiet, but the firmness in her voice makes his chest rise like she’s given him an order he actually wants to follow.

“I can’t promise I’ll get it right overnight,” he admits, “but I want to. For you. For us.”

And for the first time in the entire conversation, she believes him. Some quiet understanding. The tension is still lingering, but less so.. Better. Not the best.

He’s quiet for a beat, just watching her, his arms shifting against his legs. Then, low and certain—

“Come here.”

No direction in his voice. Just a suggestion. Light and soft. The Rafe she gets behind closed doors when she notices he deems the facade he’s built for himself for everyone else isn’t needed.

He’s convincing. 
She steps forward slowly, arms still wrapped around her middle as if it’ll still awards her some kind of protection. His good hand brushes lightly along her arm, warm against her cool skin, thawing her from the inside. How the fuck does he do that to her?

Her arms drop limply to her sides, his hand wrapping around her middle, pulling her in. He rests the better side of his face against her stomach, her own hands gently wrapping around his head and down his back, careful not to hurt him more. The rough material of the gauze around his other scratches lightly against the backs of her thighs, fingertips pressing lightly into the skin in some distant rhythm.

A few moments of silence is all she affords herself before she pulls back, her hands coming back up to cup his face once more, pulling his head back to analyze his face one more time.

Rafe lets her do so easily.

Sofia’s gaze catches on the swelling bruise on his cheekbone, the fresh dollop of dried blood along his brow. “You look like shit,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he falls into it, eyes closing just enough to let her know he’s not pretending it feels good. “Feels better when you do that.”

Her thumb sweeps gently under his cheekbone. “You’re going to need ice on this.”

“Mhm,” he hums, not moving away.

Her other hand slips to his wrapped knuckles, checking the bandage she’d done earlier. He lets her fuss, his weight leaning toward her almost imperceptibly. She notices the way his shoulders loosen under her touch, how his breathing evens out.

“You’re not exactly making this hard for me,” she mutters, glancing up at him.

“That’s the point,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like it’s halfway to a smile.

She shakes her head, but her hands keep moving across his jaw, back to his cheek, into his hair where it’s soft and warm under her fingers. His eyes open again, watching her with that look she knows too well, the one that makes the space between them feel like nothing.

“You’re still bleeding a little,” she says quietly.

He grins faintly. “Guess you’ll have to stay close until it stops.”

“I guess so,” she says quietly.

His good hand lifts to her face, fingers curling gently at her jaw as he draws her down. His lips ghost over hers for just a second—like he’s giving her the chance to pull away—before he kisses her fully. It’s achingly easy to fall into… dammit. She kisses him back without hesitation, careful to angle herself so she doesn’t bump the cut above his brow.

When she pulls away, she reaches for a piece of gauze, dabbing lightly at the blood before taking his good hand in hers and tugging him to his feet. He follows without a word, his arm slipping around her waist as they walk slow towards his room.

They ease down onto the bed together, his body curling around hers like it’s instinct. She feels him wince and turns to him, cupping his jaw to help guide his head back against the pillow. She’s mindful not to let the fabric drag against his sore cheek.

She should get him an ice pack. Something to keep the swelling down.

His leg hooks loosely over hers, keeping her anchored. He’s calm now, his blue eyes tracing over her face like he’s memorizing her in this exact moment.

She starts to push up, but his fingers wrap around her wrist, warm and a little desperate.

“Are you staying?” His voice is quieter than she’s used to. Smaller.

She gives him the same slow once-over he’s just given her before leaning back down, close enough for her breath to fan across his lips. “I’m just gonna get you some ice,” she whispers, and then she kisses him again until she feels both of them melt into it.

His grip loosens, his leg unwinds from hers, and she slips away for a moment.

She stays that night.
And the night after.