#rafe quote

Could’ve Fooled Me

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Masterlist

Context / Tropes: • Secret relationship, Mean!Rafe, Kook!Reader, Angst with moments of fluff

warnings: emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, public humiliation, sexual comments, strong language, angst, hurt/no comfort, secrecy, internalized shame, unhealthy attachment

a/n: this chapter contains some heavier emotional content and relationship toxicity, so please read with care <3

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

My relationship with Rafe was complicated.

That was the word I used whenever I couldn't bring myself to say what it actually was. Complicated sounded manageable. It sounded neat. It didn't sound like the kind of thing that kept me up at night, staring at my ceiling and replaying every look, every silence, every time he stood beside me and still somehow made me feel alone.

The truth was, it hurt.

We were together. Really together. Not casually, not halfway, not in some vague, meaningless way I could brush off if anyone asked. It was almost a year of stolen time and hidden touches. Quiet conversations in the dark. Fingers brushing under tables where no one could see. Kisses that felt so full of feeling they left me shaky for hours after. We built something real, something alive, in private.

And still, in public, I didn't exist.

Not in the romantic, thrilling kind of secret way either. Not the kind that makes your heart race because it's forbidden. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't passionate. It was just... humiliating. Like I was something to be tucked away. Something inconvenient. Something that didn't fit into the version of himself he showed everyone else.

I never fully understood why I accepted it.

Maybe because I loved him.

Maybe because when Rafe looked at me like I was the only person in the world, I could almost forget that the second we stepped outside, he'd go cold.

I told myself love was enough. I told myself that if what we had was real, if the way he touched me and looked at me and said my name when it was just the two of us meant anything, then the rest shouldn't matter.

But it did.

It mattered every single time Topper opened his mouth.

Topper never let anything go. Neither did Kelce. They had this way of making everything sound like a joke, like they were just messing around, but every word landed exactly where it was meant to.

"Didn't know you were a theater kid," Topper would say with that smug little sneer, like he'd caught me doing something pathetic.

Kelce would snort and bump his shoulder against Topper's. "What, you gonna start singing on the docks next?"

They'd laugh. Always laugh.

And I would smile like it didn't bother me because reacting would've made it worse. My chest would go tight. My stomach would twist so hard it made me feel sick. I'd keep my face calm and wait.

I always waited for Rafe.

For him to say, Knock it off. For him to look at me like he knew me. For him to do something, anything, that made it clear I wasn't standing there alone.

He never did.

Sometimes it was worse than silence.

Sometimes he joined in.

"Yeah," he'd say with this short laugh, shaking his head like I was ridiculous. "Didn't see that coming."

He'd say it so easily too. Like it cost him nothing.

Coming from anyone else, it would've stung. Coming from him, it felt like something inside me cracked clean through.

And the worst part was that half the time, when I looked at him after, there'd be this flicker in his face. Something tight around his eyes. Something unreadable. Like maybe he knew. Like maybe he hated himself for it. But he never took it back, and after a while, I stopped pretending that almost mattered.

Then there was Kiara.

One afternoon, somebody spat the word Pogue at me just because they'd seen me talking to her. Sharp. Mean. Ugly in a way that made the back of my neck burn.

The irony would've been funny if it hadn't hurt so much. We were all Kooks. Every single one of us. But that didn't matter. Not when tearing me down was easier than thinking for half a second.

I snapped before I could stop myself.

"I'm not a Pogue," I shot back, my voice already shaking. "You know that."

I hated that my voice shook. Hated that they could hear they'd gotten to me.

Rafe barely looked up.

He just shrugged, casual as anything. "Relax. It's not that serious."

I remember staring at him, thinking, Are you serious?

Not that serious.

Maybe not to him. But it was serious to me.

It was humiliating. It was isolating. It was exhausting.

Every time he laughed something off, every time he stayed quiet, every time he acted like I was asking for too much just because I wanted him to acknowledge me, it felt like a choice. Like he was choosing them. Choosing comfort. Choosing his image. Choosing everything else over me.

Like he was reminding me exactly where I belonged.

In the background. Unnamed. Unclaimed. Easy to overlook.

I told myself I should leave. I did.

There were nights I'd lie awake and think, I can't keep doing this. I deserve better than this. I deserve someone who won't touch me like they love me and then look straight through me the next morning.

Sometimes I even pictured it. Me walking away. Me finally saying no. Me choosing myself for once.

But I never did.

Because when it was just us, he changed.

He always changed.

The hardness in him would slip. His voice would go softer, lower, like he was letting me hear something no one else got to.

He'd pull me into him and press his mouth to my temple and say, "Hey. Come on. I didn't mean it like that."

Or he'd cup my face, forcing me to look at him, and murmur, "I'm sorry, okay? You know I care about you."

And I believed him. Every time.

Maybe that made me stupid. Maybe it just made me in love.

Because I did love him.

I loved him so much it scared me sometimes. Loved him deep enough that I kept making room for the hurt. Deep enough that I swallowed my pride and called it patience. Deep enough that I accepted apologies that started sounding more like routine than change.

Lately, though, something's different.

The hurt lingers longer. The words echo louder. The apologies don't settle over the damage the way they used to.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, this quiet, awful question has started to take shape inside me.

How long can love survive if it only exists in the dark?

"Coach has been running us into the ground," Rafe mutters, yanking his uniform shirt over his head like the fabric personally offended him. "Swear to God, it's like he gets off on making us suffer."

He drags the shirt down hard and exhales through his nose, already irritated at the day and it's barely started.

I sit on his bed and watch him through the mirror in my compact, pretending I'm focused on my mascara.

I'm not.

I'm watching the shadows under his eyes, darker than usual. The way his hair sticks up at the back because he clearly didn't bother fixing it properly. The slight slowness in his movements that he would never admit to, like he's more tired than he wants anyone to know.

There's something about him like this that gets to me every time. Not polished. Not smirking for show. Not sharp enough to cut anyone who gets too close. Just tired. Real. Mine, for a little while.

It makes my chest ache with this stupid, tender kind of love I can't ever seem to get rid of.

It's only eight-thirty in the morning. The sun's barely up properly. No one our age should be awake, let alone dressed and pretending to function.

But Rafe drives me to school almost every morning.

Under the excuse of tutoring.

At eight-thirty. Every day.

The lie is ridiculous, honestly.

I can already hear the way he says it to Topper and Kelce. Lazy voice. Dismissive shrug. Like it's barely worth mentioning.

"Yeah, man, it's just easier before class. Only time that works."

As if I'm a timeslot. As if I'm not the reason he gets up at all. As if he doesn't text me when he's outside and wait until I get in the car before peeling away from the curb.

The excuse is paper-thin, and we both know it.

I never call him on it.

Because even this is something. These quiet mornings in his room. These little pieces of him before the rest of the world gets him. These half-hours where he lets himself look at me like I matter.

It shouldn't be enough. But with him, somehow, it always feels dangerously close.

"Maybe you should try for captain again," I say, keeping my tone light while I run mascara over my lashes. I have to hold the compact awkwardly in one hand because he doesn't have a desk, so I'm perched on the edge of his bed with my knees tucked in, concentrating hard enough that my tongue presses against my cheek.

He lets out a humorless laugh from across the room. "Yeah, no. Hard pass."

I glance up. "Why not?"

Rafe looks at me like I've asked the dumbest question he's ever heard. "Because I don't feel like dealing with a bunch of idiots who need everything spelled out for them all the time."

I smile despite myself. "You say that about literally everything."

He starts buttoning his shirt, expression flattening into that smug look he wears so naturally. "Not everything."

Then, quieter, like he's trying to sound casual and missing by a mile, he says, "Come over tonight."

My stomach flips so fast it almost annoys me.

Part of it is excitement. The instant, stupid kind I can't control whenever he wants me close. Part of it is hesitation, old and familiar. The kind that asks, Tonight in private? And tomorrow what?

Still, I roll my eyes because if I don't tease him, he'll know exactly what that did to me.

"Oh, I'm sure you do," I say, snapping the compact shut.

His mouth twitches.

Then he crosses the room and stops between my knees.

Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that his cologne, clean and expensive and so specifically him, settles into my lungs.

He always does this. Just steps into my space like he already owns it. Like he knows I won't move.

Maybe he does know.

"I bought that game you were talking about," he says, voice dropping slightly, that teasing edge creeping in. "Figured we'd order food. Hang out for a bit."

I raise an eyebrow. "Hang out?"

He gives me a look. "Don't start."

I bite back a smile.

His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second, and my pulse picks up right away. It's embarrassing how fast my body reacts to him. How easy it is. How after everything, after all the ways he can hurt me, one look from him still makes me feel warm all over.

"Sounds perfect," I admit before I can stop myself.

Then I add, because I need some kind of shield, "But only if I get a chicken burger."

"A chicken burger?" he repeats, like I'm asking for something deeply unreasonable.

"Yes."

"That's your condition?"

"That's my condition."

He stares at me for a second, then leans in until his forehead rests against mine.

His eyes go mock-serious. "Then a chicken burger is what you shall receive."

I laugh softly.

He pauses, then adds, thick with sarcasm, "Babe."

"You're such a dweeb," I mumble, even though my whole face feels warm.

He grins at that. A real grin, not the sharp, mean version he gives everyone else. It's unfair, honestly, how different he can look when he's actually happy.

I try to shift away, mostly to save myself, but he suddenly drops his weight onto me and sends us both falling back on the bed.

I let out this breathless half-squeal, half-laugh and grab at his shoulders on instinct. "Rafe!"

"What?" he says, laughing like he's innocent.

"You're literally the worst."

"Yeah?" He dips his head and presses a quick kiss to my mouth. "You seem obsessed with me, so."

"You're insane."

He kisses me again. Quick. Light. Then again. And again.

Playful little pecks that make me laugh so hard I can barely get a proper breath in.

"Rafe," I say, squirming under him. "Stop."

He kisses the corner of my mouth. "Make me."

I shove weakly at his chest. "Just kiss me properly. You're so annoying."

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

And there it is.

That look. Dark eyes gone warm. Mouth curved like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Something soft underneath all the arrogance, all the bite, all the damage.

Entirely too familiar. Entirely mine, for now.

Then he leans down and kisses me properly.

Slow. Certain. Unrushed in a way that feels almost dangerous, because it tricks me into believing he has nowhere else to be. Like the world outside this room doesn't exist yet. Like he isn't Rafe Cameron, and I am not the girl he hides.

One of my hands slides into his shirt, fingers curling there just to feel the warmth of him. To make sure he's real. To make sure this is.

His mouth moves against mine with a kind of confidence that should irritate me and somehow never does. He always kisses me like he knows I'll follow. Like he knows I already have.

When he finally pulls back, it's only enough to murmur against my lips, "So bossy."

I smile, breath still uneven. "Only with you."

And that's the truth.

There are versions of myself no one else gets. The softer one. The needier one. The one who wants to stay right here and pretend love can survive on moments like this.

With anyone else, maybe I'd hold more back. With him, I never really could.

For a few seconds, I let myself stay there.

Wrapped up in him. In the warmth of his body over mine. In the quiet hum of the morning. In the version of us that only exists behind closed doors.

I let myself pretend this is enough.

That the way he looks at me now matters more than the way he won't later. That his hands on my waist mean more than his silence in the hallways. That loving him like this isn't slowly hollowing me out.

Because soon, we'll pull apart. We'll fix our clothes. He'll grab his keys. I'll grab my bag. We'll slip right back into character like we always do.

I'll be the girl he tutors. He'll be the guy who barely looks at me at school.

And this soft, secret version of us will vanish the second we walk out that door.

That's the part that hurts the most.

Not that he loves me. I know he does.

It's that he loves me here. Only here.

And I hate how much of me is still willing to take that and call it enough.

---

"I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore," Kiara says, slamming her locker shut hard enough to make the metal rattle down the whole row.

I flinch a little at the sound but keep my shoulder pressed against the locker beside hers anyway, letting the cold seep through my shirt. It grounds me. Or maybe it just gives me something else to focus on.

Kiara scrubs a hand down her face and lets out this hollow little laugh that doesn't sound like her at all. "I've got Pope on one side and JJ on the other and I swear to God, I'm losing my mind."

I glance over at her. "That's dramatic."

"I'm being serious." She turns to face me fully now, her brows pulled together. "I know this makes me sound like a terrible person, but I don't even know if I want to be with either of them."

I shrug, trying to make it look easy, like this conversation isn't digging under my skin in ways I don't want to examine too closely. "Then don't."

She blinks. "What?"

"Don't be with either of them," I say again, a little slower this time. "You don't have to pick someone just because they're there."

Kiara stares at me like I've said something completely ridiculous. "But that's the problem," she says, pushing off the locker just enough to throw her hands up. "With Pope, it's easy. He gets me. Like, actually gets me. He knows when I'm joking, when I'm annoyed, when I need space. Everything with him just... works."

She trails off, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"And JJ?" I ask quietly.

Her whole expression changes.

It's so small I almost miss it, but it's there. Softer. More confused. More honest.

"JJ's a mess," she says, and there's this helpless little breath of a laugh in her voice. "He drives me insane. His ideas are always stupid, and somehow I still go along with them. He's reckless and loud and he never thinks anything through. Being around him is like standing too close to a fire. It's exhausting."

"But?" I say.

She looks down at the floor. "But he makes me feel alive. Like, in the worst way. In the best way too. And I hate that."

I nod slowly, even though something in my chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

I know that feeling. I know exactly what she means.

The kind of person who wrecks your peace and becomes it at the same time.

"Maybe you need time," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Like, actual time. By yourself. Figure out what you want when nobody's in your face asking for something."

She doesn't answer right away.

The words just sit there between us. Heavy. Too honest.

Because I didn't just mean her. And I think some part of me knows that.

Kiara lets out a quiet breath. "That's what Sarah said too."

"Sarah?" a voice cuts in, thick with mockery. "What the hell does Sarah have to do with anything?"

My eyes close for half a second.

Of course.

"God, jog on, Topper," Kiara groans.

I straighten automatically, my back pressing flat to the locker now instead of leaning against it. Something instinctive. Defensive. Like my body knows before my mind catches up that this is about to go bad.

Then I see him.

Rafe.

My chest tightens so fast it steals my breath.

He's standing next to Topper like he belongs there, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose in that way he does when he's trying to look unaffected. His jaw is set. His expression is blank in that carefully controlled way I know too well.

And when his eyes flick to mine, there's nothing in them.

Nothing.

No warmth. No softness from this morning. No trace of the boy who kissed me breathless in his bedroom and laughed against my mouth like I was the only thing in the world worth smiling at.

Just cold. Flat. Dismissive.

Like I'm in the way. Like I shouldn't even be here.

My throat tightens.

He's pretending, I tell myself immediately. He has to be. This is the rule. This is how it works.

Still, it stings every single time.

"Shut it, Pogue," Kelce says, looking right at me.

His voice is full of that lazy kind of contempt that rich boys like him wear so easily, like cruelty's just another language they were raised speaking.

I let out a short, disbelieving scoff. "You do realize we're not even Pogues, right?"

Kelce shrugs. "Could've fooled me."

Before I can say anything else, Rafe speaks.

"Yeah," he says flatly. "Could've fooled us."

The sound of his voice hits harder than I want it to.

It's not loud. Not even especially mean by his standards. But it's careless. Distant. Like I'm nobody to him.

Topper laughs, loud and obnoxious, and the noise crawls all over my skin.

He'll fix it later, I tell myself. He always does. He'll pull me aside and lower his voice and touch my face and tell me he didn't mean it like that. He'll say he had to play along. He'll say sorry.

He always says sorry.

"Oh, really?" Kiara snaps, crossing her arms. "Why don't you three go ask daddy to donate some new uniforms? Yours looks a little tight, Top."

She gestures toward his chest, and for a second, despite everything, I almost smile.

Almost.

Topper gives her this fake amused look. "You're just jealous I won't hit."

Kiara makes a disgusted face.

And before I can stop myself, before my brain catches up with my mouth, I cut in.

"Yeah, right," I say. "Like we'd ever want your dick, Topper."

There's a beat of silence.

Kiara's eyes widen. Topper looks offended. Kelce starts laughing.

And from the corner of my eye, I see Rafe swallow.

It's subtle, but I notice it. I always notice him.

A flicker crosses his face. Tight. Sharp. Possessive in a way that sends a hot, confusing pulse through my chest even now.

If he gets jealous that easily, you'd think he'd finally do something about it. Say something. Claim me. Anything.

But of course, that's not how this goes.

Kelce tilts his head, looking between me and Rafe with sudden interest. The second the idea lands, I can practically see it happen.

"Oh," he says slowly, grinning. "She doesn't want Topper's."

My stomach drops.

"Kelce," Rafe says, low and warning.

But it's too late. And he doesn't sound angry enough. He sounds irritated, like this is inconvenient, not cruel.

Kelce ignores him completely. "No, no, I get it now. She'd want yours."

Topper barks out a laugh. "Jesus Christ."

Heat rushes up my neck so fast I feel dizzy.

"Shut up," I say, and I hate how thin my voice sounds.

Kelce's eyes narrow. "The way you stare at him? It's honestly embarrassing."

I don't. I don't stare.

Except maybe I do. Maybe sometimes I look too long in the hallways because even if he won't look back, I can't help checking anyway. Maybe I look for him in every room without meaning to. Maybe loving someone in secret teaches your body stupid habits before your head can stop them.

"I don't," I say, but the words come out smaller than I want.

Kelce grins wider, sensing weakness like guys like him always do. "You're a fucking stalker."

I look at Rafe then. Really look at him.

His jaw twitches. That tell. That tiny movement he gets when he's holding something back.

Hope sparks in my chest so suddenly it almost hurts.

Say something. Please. Just once, pick me.

Kelce glances at him, still smirking. "Isn't that right, Rafe?"

Rafe exhales slowly, eyes still on me. Too slowly.

For one stupid second, I think maybe he's not going to do it. Maybe he's going to tell them to shut the hell up. Maybe he's finally reached a line he won't cross.

Then his expression shifts.

Not much. Just enough.

That cold little curl at the edge of his mouth. That mean, detached look he slips into when he wants everyone around him to know he doesn't care.

"She would," he says.

Everything in me goes still.

Topper lets out this shocked laugh, like even he didn't think Rafe would go there.

And then Rafe does what he always does when he feels cornered. He pushes harder. Meaner. Crueler. Like if he's going down, he'll drag the whole room with him.

His lip curls.

"I'd have her screaming too."

The world drops out from under me.

For a second, I can't hear anything properly.

My heart slams so hard it climbs into my throat. Heat floods my face. My palms go slick. There's this awful ringing in my ears, like my body's trying to shut the whole moment out before it can settle in.

We had never talked like that. Not once.

Not as a joke. Not in front of other people. Not ever.

He'd touched me like I was precious. He'd kissed me like I was something worth being careful with. He'd held my face in both hands and looked at me like he didn't know what to do with how much he felt.

And now he's standing there talking about me like I'm a body. Like I'm a punchline. Like I'm something he can throw to his friends and laugh about after.

I could take the teasing. I could even survive the silence.

But this?

This feels like betrayal.

Real betrayal. The kind that doesn't just hurt. The kind that rearranges something inside you.

"Go fuck yourself, Rafe," I snap.

My voice cuts through the hallway sharper than I expect, loud enough that a few people nearby turn to look.

I don't care.

"Don't you have practice?"

For the first time, something breaks across his face.

It happens fast, but I catch it. Uncertainty. Regret, maybe. Something shaken loose behind his eyes like he only just realized how far he took it.

And God, I hate that some pathetic part of me still recognizes that face. Still knows him well enough to see the exact second the mask slips.

But he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't come after me. He doesn't tell Kelce to shut up. He doesn't fix it.

He just stands there.

And then Topper claps Kelce on the shoulder, laughing, and the moment is gone. They turn like it's nothing. Like they didn't just crack something open in the middle of the hallway and leave it bleeding.

They walk away loose and easy, all smug confidence and stupid laughter.

Rafe goes with them.

He doesn't look back.

I stand there shaking. My fists are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. My heart is still racing so hard it makes me feel sick. I stare at the floor because if I look up, I might cry, and there is no way in hell I'm crying here.

Beside me, Kiara mutters, "Douche."

I don't answer. I can't.

Because for the first time since being with him, I'm not standing here telling myself he didn't mean it.

I'm standing here wondering what it means that he did.

And the worst part, the part I don't want to look at too closely, is that I still love him.

I love him even now, with my face burning and my chest aching and humiliation sitting so heavy inside me I can barely breathe around it.

I love him enough to know exactly why he said it. Because Topper was watching. Because Kelce was pushing. Because Rafe would rather light something good on fire than let anyone see how much it matters to him.

I know him. I know the ugly, broken logic of him. I know that when he feels trapped, he gets mean. When he feels exposed, he makes sure someone else bleeds first.

And maybe that should make me hate him.

Maybe it would be easier if I did.

But all it really does is make me feel sick, because I know beneath all that cruelty, beneath the performance and the ego and the fear, he is still the same boy who looked at me this morning like I was the only soft thing he had left.

That is what makes this unbearable.

Not that I don't know who he is. It's that I do.

Its nothing 

Dad!RafeCameron x Reader 

“Wait… you did what?” I whispered, my hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter like it could hold the world together. My heart was racing, and my brain refused to process what I’d just heard.

Rafe didn’t even flinch. He was slouched in the armchair, laptop perched on his knees like a general surveying the battlefield. “I had to, baby,” he muttered, his voice soft, almost pleading, like he’d done something heroic instead of catastrophic.

I narrowed my eyes. “Rafe… you are unbelievable. You… you can’t just do things like this!”

He finally looked up, blinking innocently. “I… couldn’t help myself. She looked so cute.”

“Cute?” I scoffed, pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. “Rafe, that’s not cute! That’s… that’s financial insanity! You can’t just—just—decide to do this without talking to me!”

“I think… maybe you’re being a little dramatic, baby,” he said, tilting his head, trying that cocky grin that I’d secretly melted for a hundred times before.

“You. Don’t. Get. To call me that!” I hissed, crossing my arms tightly. “I am not in the mood for your charming little manipulations!”

“Okay, okay… but seriously, you are being dramatic,” he countered, shrugging like he was telling me the sky was blue.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You bought our daughter a $500 necklace, Rafe!” My voice rose with every word. “You say it like it’s nothing, like it’s just… just some trinket!”

He shrugged again, guilt and pride warring on his face. “It is… nothing,” he muttered.

“She’s six!” I screeched, pacing faster. “Six! She’s supposed to be making macaroni necklaces and painting rocks, not getting jewelry that costs more than my car insurance!”

Rafe’s expression softened. He leaned against the counter, eyes warm. “I just want what’s best for my girls,” he said, voice low, full of that quiet conviction that made my knees feel weak.

I felt my anger falter. “I know you do, Rafe…” I started, the edge in my voice softening.

He cut me off with that mischievous glint I both loved and feared. “So… you wouldn’t kill me if I got you the matching bracelet?”

I froze. “You… what?” I groaned, dropping into a chair, burying my face in my hands. “Rafe. Rafe.”

“It was only $470,” he said, as casually as if he’d just commented on the weather.

“Only?!” I yelled, looking at him like he’d grown another head. “That’s… $970. Spent. In one day. On jewelry! Are you insane?”

He smirked and moved closer, wrapping his arms around me from behind, pulling me into his chest. “Oh, stop whining,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “You love it, really.”

I froze, caught between exasperation and affection. Maybe I did love it. The thoughtfulness, the sparkle of the necklace, the way he always went overboard for us—it was infuriating and sweet all at once.

“Maybe I do,” I admitted softly, leaning back against him.

Rafe pressed his lips to my neck, whispering, “See? That wasn’t so dramatic, was it?”

“I hate you,” I groaned, but the corners of my mouth twitched upward.

“Yeah, you love me,” he whispered, nuzzling closer.

Before I could respond, Lana’s tiny voice rang out from the living room. “Mommy! Daddy! Look what I got!”

Rafe released me just enough to watch her come bounding in, holding the necklace box like it was the crown jewels. “Lana!” I exclaimed, glancing between her and Rafe. “Did you open it already?”

She shook her head furiously. “No! Daddy said it’s a surprise! But I helped him pick it!” She beamed, little dimples flashing.

“And you… bought matching ones for mommy?” I asked, looking at Rafe, who shrugged, feigning innocence.

“I mean… only if you wanted me to,” he said, raising his eyebrows like a mischievous cartoon villain.

I groaned again, dramatically, flopping back into the chair. “You are impossible,” I muttered.

“And you love it,” Rafe teased, leaning over and kissing my temple.

“Maybe…” I admitted softly, sighing, and finally letting the tension melt away.

Dalton, sensing the mood shift, clapped his tiny hands from his high chair. “Da-da! Da-da!” he squealed.

Rafe laughed, scooping him up. “Yeah, buddy, Daddy is amazing, right?”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed too, exasperated, overwhelmed, and full of warmth. “You’ve ruined me,” I said softly, shaking my head. “Completely.”

“And you love it,” Rafe whispered again, cheek against mine, as Lana bounced around with her new treasure and Dalton gurgled happily in Rafe’s arms.

Couldve fooled Me - Part 3

Rafe Cameron

Masterlist

Trope: Secret relationship

Warnings: angst, jealousy, toxic relationship dynamics, secrecy, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, intense confrontation, hurt/comfort, mild language, alcohol/party setting

Words: 9.5k

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩

"Rafe, you can't be serious right now." The words leave me on a breathy, disbelieving laugh, and I fold my arms tight across my chest like that'll somehow keep me from coming apart in front of him. My brows shoot up before I can stop them. "You literally promised me it was a one-time thing. We had a whole conversation about this, Rafe. You looked me right in the eye and said it wasn't gonna happen again."

He stares at me for a second, jaw ticking, nostrils flaring just slightly like he's already annoyed that this is turning into a thing. "It was Y/N," he says, clipped and hard, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. He starts pacing once, then stops, too wound up to stay still. "I told you that. I told her it wasn't gonna work, alright? What else do you want me to do? She's still gonna be there. She's still gonna be out with us. I can't control every single person in the room."

"That's not the point and you know it."

"No, I do know it," he snaps, then laughs once under his breath, sharp and humorless. "You think I'm out here trying to make you look stupid? Is that what you think?"

My stomach twists so hard it almost makes me feel sick. Because beneath the frustration, beneath the anger, there's something worse. That awful, familiar ache of realizing I should've known better. I should've known better than to believe that with Rafe, promises ever stayed simple.

"I think," I say, quieter now, even though I hate how shaky I sound, "that if it's nothing, then why does it always feel like I'm the one who's supposed to just deal with it? Why am I always the one adjusting? Why am I always the one hiding?"

That lands. I can tell it does by the way his expression changes, just for a second. Something tight flashes across his face. Not softness exactly. Not even guilt all the way. Just something raw and irritated and cornered, like he hates that I said the one thing he doesn't have a good answer for.

He looks away first, rubbing his hand over his mouth. "Jesus," he mutters. "Can you not do this right now?"

"Do what?"

"Make it into something bigger than it is."

I let out a short laugh, because that almost would've been funny if it didn't hurt so bad. "Bigger than it is? Rafe, we're in your bedroom with the door shut and half the island doesn't even know I exist to you. How exactly is that not a thing?"

His eyes cut back to mine then, cold and sharp in that way of his that always makes the room feel smaller. For a second I think he's gonna blow up, say something cruel just because he can, just because that's easier than actually talking. That's the thing about him. With Rafe, you can always feel the edge before it comes.

But then his voice drops instead.

"Baby," he says, rougher now, stepping closer. "Don't start tripping on me over this. You know how it looks, yeah, I get that. But I'm telling you, it's nothing."

The way he says baby should irritate me more than it does. It should make me angrier, hearing him use that low, coaxing tone like it's enough to smooth over everything else. And maybe it does. Maybe that's exactly why my chest tightens the second he says it.

Because it works. At least a little. And I hate that.

I look down at the floor, swallowing hard, suddenly too aware of how heavy everything feels inside me. My chest is tight. My throat feels hot. It feels like if I say one more thing, everything I've been trying to hold in is gonna come spilling out all at once, and I refuse to cry in front of him. Not over this. Not again.

"Hey." His voice softens, just enough to make me look up. "Hey, c'mere."

He doesn't wait for me to decide. He never really does. One second there's space between us, and the next his hand is at my waist, pulling me into him with that careless certainty like he already knows I'm not gonna fight him too hard. My heart stutters anyway.

"Rafe..."

"Relax," he murmurs, though he's the furthest thing from relaxed himself.

His chest is warm beneath the hoodie, solid and familiar, and when I breathe in, all I get is salt air, smoke, detergent, and him. My shoulders loosen before I mean for them to. His hand slides up my back slow, almost absentminded, but I know him well enough to know it's not absentminded at all. With Rafe, even tenderness has control in it.

"It's just a party, alright?" he says into my hair. His fingers thread through it in that lazy, deliberate way that always messes with my head. "You're with me. I'm gonna be right there. Nothing's gonna happen."

I let out a quiet breath against his chest. "You keep saying that."

"Because I'm serious."

"Are you?"

That makes him go still for half a second.

I feel it, the change in him. The slight tension in his arm around me. The way his fingers tighten on my hip before easing again.

When he speaks, his voice is lower. Less defensive. More dangerous somehow because of how controlled it is. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

I lean back just enough to look at him, and there's something in his face that catches me off guard. His jaw is still hard, his eyes still intense, but all that anger from a minute ago has burned down into something quieter. More focused. He's looking at me like the rest of the room, the rest of the night, all of it, has narrowed down to this one conversation.

"Then tell me the truth," I whisper. "Why does this have to be a secret?"

For a second, he doesn't answer.

His mouth presses into a flat line. He glances toward the door like the question itself put him on edge, then back at me.

"You wanna do this now?" he asks.

"Yeah. I do."

He exhales through his nose, impatient, but not dismissive this time. More like he's trying not to say the wrong thing and failing anyway. "Because people talk," he says finally. "Because people don't know how to keep their mouths shut. Because the second anybody sees something, it turns into a whole thing, and I don't need that right now."

"You don't need it," I repeat.

His eyes narrow. "Don't do that."

"I'm just listening to you."

"No, you're twisting it."

"Am I?"

He lets out a low curse and drops his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he's trying to wrestle himself under control. When he looks at me again, there's frustration there, but underneath it something more honest slips through.

"I am trying," he says, quieter now. "You get that, right? I'm trying to keep this from turning into a mess."

"It already is a mess."

His laugh is bitter and brief. "Yeah. No kidding."

That shouldn't make me want to smile, but it almost does. Almost. Instead I just shake my head and press my lips together, because if I let myself soften too fast, we're just gonna end up in the same place we always do.

I rest my forehead lightly against his chest again, closing my eyes for a second. My stomach is still doing that nervous, twisting thing, still not buying any of this even when the rest of me wants to.

"Just... promise me nothing's gonna happen," I mumble. It comes out small, embarrassingly small. Like begging. Like I haven't learned anything. Like some part of me still believes if he says the right words in the right tone, it'll change what he is when the lights are on and people are watching.

His hand slides under my chin, rough fingertips warm against my skin, his thumb pressing just enough to tilt my face up. "Look at me," he mutters.

I do.

His eyes lock on mine, blue and steady and impossible to read all the way. His jaw works once. Twice. Like whatever he's about to say costs him something.

"I promise you," he says finally.

And the thing is, he sounds deadly serious. Not casual. Not lazy. Not like he's saying it just to shut me up. He sounds like he means it right now, in this exact moment, with his hand on my face and his body still close to mine.

There's a flicker in his expression then, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. Something that looks too much like guilt. Or fear. Or maybe just the briefest crack in all that swagger and temper and control. Something human. Something that makes my chest twist in a way I don't know what to do with.

"Rafe..."

"I said I promise," he says again, softer this time, but firmer too. His thumb brushes once across my jaw. "I got you, okay?"

I want to ask if he even knows what that means. I want to ask how he can say that and still keep me tucked away behind closed doors like something fragile or shameful or temporary. I want to ask why I keep letting him pull me back in every single time.

I don't ask any of it.

Maybe because I already know none of his answers would fix this. Maybe because standing this close to him always scrambles my better judgment. Maybe because some stupid, hopeful part of me still wants to believe him.

He dips his head before I can say anything else, catching my mouth in a kiss that feels more like a claim than comfort. It's quick and sharp, not soft exactly, but careful in a way that surprises me. Controlled. Like he's holding back the part of himself that always wants too much, too fast, too hard.

When he pulls away, it's only barely. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still at my jaw, the other planted firm on my hip.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," he murmurs.

I blink up at him. "Like what?"

"Like you don't believe me."

I let out a shaky breath. "Maybe because I don't know if I should."

His eyes search mine for a long second, intense and unreadable. Then his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, more like something tired and crooked and a little broken around the edges.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Maybe not."

That honesty hits harder than another promise would've.

Outside his bedroom, the house is still alive somewhere beyond the walls. Voices downstairs. A door shutting. Music bleeding faintly through the floor. The whole world waiting just outside this room, ready to ruin whatever this is the second we step back into it.

But for one suspended second, he doesn't move away.

Neither do I.

And when his forehead stays pressed to mine like he's not ready to let me go, I hate how much it feels like maybe I'm not ready either.

----

My phone lights up on the bed beside me for the third time in ten minutes, some useless notification I ignore without even checking. I scroll back up to Rafe’s last text instead.

Be cool tonight, alright?

That’s it.

No heart. No nickname. No stupid little thing that sounds soft enough to belong to us. Just three words and everything packed inside them.

Be cool. Don’t sound jealous. Don’t start anything. Don’t look at him too long. Don’t act like a girlfriend when nobody’s supposed to know you are one.

I stare at the screen until the words start to blur together, my chest tight in that familiar, exhausting way. It’s insane how three words from him can do that to me. How they can make me feel chosen and dismissed at the exact same time.

Then my phone buzzes in my hand.

JJ.

His name flashes across the screen, and for some reason that feels easier to breathe through.

I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, JJ.” My voice comes out softer than I mean for it to, thin with tiredness.

“Yooooo, y/n,” he says, dragging my name out like he’s already grinning. “You alive over there or did you finally fuse with your mattress?”

Despite myself, I let out the smallest huff of a laugh. “Maybe a little of both.”

“Cool. Love that for you. So you coming tonight or what?”

I stare up at the ceiling. At the hairline crack in the paint. At the shadows stretching over my room as the light outside starts to change.

I really don’t want to go.

I don’t want the noise or the bodies packed too close together. I don’t want the music so loud it crawls under my skin. I definitely don’t want to see Rafe standing around with his friends and all those girls who act like they don’t notice me, like I’m furniture, like I’m too irrelevant to even be jealous of.

But I know better.

I know they notice him. I know they always will. And I know one of them will try something, because they always do.

And the worst part is I can’t even react. I can’t walk up and put a hand on his arm. I can’t look at him the wrong way. I can’t ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Because he’s mine in all the ways that matter and none of the ways that count in public.

I roll onto my back and twist a loose thread on my pillowcase around my finger until it almost cuts into my skin. “I don’t know,” I say after a second. “I might stay in tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then JJ scoffs so dramatically I have to pull the phone back a little. “Stay in? On a Saturday? Absolutely not. No. Rejected. Try again.”

I close my eyes. “JJ.”

“Nope. I’m serious.” I can hear movement on his end, a car door slamming somewhere in the background, wind rushing past the speaker. “You are way too hot to be rotting in your room like some haunted little Victorian orphan.”

A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. “That is such a weird thing to say.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a weird guy. You knew that when you picked me as one of your favorite people.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You didn’t have to. I can feel these things.”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet lovable. It’s a burden.”

I hear him messing with something, probably turning down the radio with one hand while doing something else reckless with the other. Then he says, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. There’s gonna be kegs, a garbage playlist, at least three guys trying way too hard to look cool, and probably somebody crying before eleven. Classic Outer Banks event. You can’t miss quality entertainment like that.”

I don’t answer right away.

Because I can picture it too easily.

The heat. The smell of beer and salt and expensive perfume. The press of people moving around each other like tides. And Rafe somewhere in the middle of it all, leaning back with that lazy, smug look he gets when he knows everyone in the room is watching him.

Some girl laughing too loud at something he says. Some girl stepping into his space like she belongs there. Some girl touching what I only ever get in secret.

My stomach knots so hard it almost feels like nausea.

“I’m not really in a party mood,” I say quietly.

JJ goes quiet for half a second.

He always hears it. Even when I want him not to.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice changes a little. Softer. Less performance. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, and I’m a licensed medical professional.”

I snort before I can help it.

“See, there she is,” he says quickly, like he’s proud of himself for getting even that much out of me. “You’ve been weird all week. What’s going on? You sick? You tired? Pope assign you fifty pages of something painful? John B been acting stupid again?”

Rafe’s name rises up so fast it almost slips out.

It sits there, bitter and heavy, right at the back of my tongue.

Actually, I’m secretly dating Rafe Cameron and it’s making me feel insane.

Actually, the guy I’m in love with keeps asking me to hide like I’m something fragile or embarrassing, and I don’t know if that hurts because I understand it or because I do.

Actually, I’m scared to go to a party because if I see another girl too close to him, I might come apart right there in public.

I swallow all of it down.

Nobody gets that part of my life. Nobody.

I let out a breath. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Y/n.”

The way he says my name makes guilt press at my ribs.

I drag a hand down my face and stare at the dark shape of my TV across the room. “It’s just... I don’t really feel like dealing with a bunch of people tonight.”

“Okay,” he says, easy and immediate. “That’s fair. People are the worst. Present company excluded, obviously. I’m delightful.”

“Debatable.”

“Rude.”

A small silence settles between us.

Then he keeps going, gentler this time. “You don’t have to go be all sparkly for anybody, you know. You could literally just come hang with me. That’s it. We’ll sit somewhere dumb and make fun of everyone together. Minimal effort.”

I pick at the thread on my pillow again until it comes loose in my fingers. “I just...”

My throat tightens before I can finish.

JJ waits.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t crowd the silence. He just lets me have it.

And somehow that makes the words slip out easier.

“I hate feeling stupid,” I say.

The room goes so quiet around me that I can hear the hum of the AC kicking on.

On the other end of the line, JJ doesn’t joke right away.

He just says, more carefully, “What do you mean?”

I stare at the ceiling again, blinking hard. “I don’t know. Forget it.”

“Nope.”

His answer comes fast this time.

“JJ...”

“No, seriously, don’t do that.” His voice turns firm, but not mean. “You can’t just say something real and then try to snatch it back like I didn’t hear it. That’s shady behavior. Probably illegal. Morally, at least.”

A laugh slips out of me, but it hurts. It feels like pressing on a bruise just to prove it’s still there.

“I just don’t want to go somewhere and feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t get the joke,” I say.

That lands between us.

I can hear him breathing on the other end. Hear him thinking.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Then don’t.”

I frown. “What?”

“Don’t be the one who doesn’t get the joke.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does in my head, give me a second.” I hear him shift around, like he’s climbing into the truck. “I’m saying if people are being weird, then they’re the weird ones. Not you. If something feels off, that doesn’t automatically mean you did something wrong. Sometimes people just suck. Rich people especially. You know that.”

A smile flickers at the corner of my mouth. “That is an incredibly biased opinion.”

“It’s also correct.”

He pauses. “And for the record, if anybody at that party makes you feel stupid, I’ll ruin their night.”

I let out a tiny laugh. “How noble of you.”

“Thank you. I’m basically a community service program.”

Then, quieter, “I mean it, though.”

Something in my chest loosens a little.

I sit up and pull my knees in, resting my forehead against them. “Why are you so determined to drag me out of my house?”

JJ exhales, and I can hear the truth before he even says it.

“Because you’ve been hiding,” he says simply. “And when you hide, you get all up in your head. Then you start blaming yourself for stuff that’s not even yours. Then you stop sleeping, then you get quiet, and then when I suggest food you look at me like I just keyed your car.”

I let my eyes close.

He knows me too well.

Not all of me. Not the part with Rafe. Not the part I keep tucked away behind locked doors and late-night texts and whispered promises.

But enough.

Enough to notice when I’m not right. Enough to keep reaching anyway.

“You deserve one night where you’re not in your room spiraling,” he says. His tone is lighter again, but there’s something steady underneath it. “That’s all I’m asking. One dumb party. You don’t have to talk to anybody you don’t want to talk to. You don’t have to drink. You don’t have to dance. Hell, you don’t even have to smile if you don’t feel like it. Just come be there with us.”

Us.

Me, John B, Kiara, Pope. JJ.

Something clean and uncomplicated. Something that doesn’t ask me to hide.

I swallow and look down at the thread wound around my finger. “What if it’s weird?”

JJ lets out a short laugh. “It’s a Kook party. It’s absolutely gonna be weird. That’s basically the theme. But we’ll be there. I’ll stick with you.”

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Babysit?” He sounds offended. “Please. I’d never disrespect you like that. I’m saying I’ll be your emotional support menace.”

I laugh a little harder at that.

“Seriously,” he says. “You can hang with me. With all of us. Nobody’s making you go off and mingle with random sweaty dudes named Connor.”

“What if his name is Tyler?”

“Worse. Even more reason to stay by me.”

I smile into my knees.

I can picture it for a second. Standing off to the side with JJ, his shoulder bumping mine, both of us watching the chaos like we’re above it even when we’re not. Him making low comments under his breath until I laugh hard enough to forget why I was upset in the first place.

Then another image pushes in.

Rafe seeing me there. Rafe seeing me with JJ. Rafe going still in that way he does when he’s trying not to react.

My chest goes tight and strange.

“Look,” JJ says, filling the silence before it can get too heavy, “if it sucks, we leave. Immediately. No dramatic suffering. No martyr act. We bail. I’ll steal a couple beers, maybe some chips if they’ve got the good ones, and we’ll go sit on the dock and talk trash about rich people until you feel human again. Deal?”

I bite my lip.

On his end I can hear voices now, laughter, the slam of another car door, music in the distance. Night starting up.

“Where is it?” I ask, even though part of me already knows.

“Cameron place,” he says. “Big house, big dock, big creepy energy. You know the one.”

My heart drops so fast it feels physical.

Of course.

Of course it’s there.

Of course the universe looked at my fragile mental state and said, yeah, let’s make this worse.

I can see it too clearly.

Rafe leaning back like he owns every square inch of the island. A girl pressed too close to his side. His hand on somebody else’s hip when it should be on mine.

And me standing there like a stranger who only ever imagined she mattered.

“Yeah,” I say, barely above a murmur. “I know it.”

Going there feels like walking straight into something waiting to hurt me. Like stepping into a test I didn’t study for, except the subject is my own self-respect.

One wrong look, one wrong pause, one second too long with my eyes on his, and somebody might start putting the pieces together. Why Rafe goes quiet when I walk by. Why his attention shifts even when he pretends it doesn’t. Why it always feels like there’s something unsaid vibrating in the air between us.

JJ hears the hesitation but misreads it.

“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “But hey, free food probably. Maybe not good food, but free. And those stupid little lights they string up everywhere? Great for brooding. Real cinematic if you want to stare at the water and act mysterious.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

He snorts. “Please. You absolutely are. Half the time you look like you know something everybody else doesn’t.”

If only he knew.

I almost tell him then.

Almost.

JJ, I can’t go to that house because the boy I love is gonna be there pretending I don’t exist.

The confession rises so fast it scares me.

I bury it.

Instead I say, “What if I just come for a little while?”

“Yes.”

He answers so fast I can hear the grin in it.

“That’s literally all I’m asking. One appearance. You show up, we act normal about it for, like, two seconds, then I make an embarrassing scene because I’m happy you came, and after that you can stay however long you want. Ten minutes. An hour. Whatever. I just want you out of your room.”

I look at my reflection in the TV screen across from me.

My hair is a mess. My eyes look tired. I still look like someone who’s been holding too much in for too long.

And then, like she’s right there in my room with me, I hear Caroline’s voice in my head telling me to get up, put on something cute, and stop letting boys decide which rooms I’m allowed to walk into.

I let out a breath.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”

JJ whoops loud enough that I yank the phone away from my ear.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. I can hear him slap something, probably the steering wheel. “Okay, get ready. I’m coming to get you in like thirty.”

I straighten up so fast my pillow falls off the bed. “Thirty minutes? JJ, that is not enough time.”

“It is absolutely enough time.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You look good already.”

“You haven’t even seen me.”

“Don’t need to. I know what I know.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not how that works.”

“It kind of is, actually.” He laughs, then adds, “Also, if I give you more than thirty minutes, you’re gonna overthink it and fake some tragic illness. I’m protecting the mission.”

“I do not fake tragic illnesses.”

“Really? Because last time you didn’t want to go somewhere you texted me ‘I think I have a nineteenth-century wasting disease.’”

I drop my head into my hand, laughing despite myself. “That was one time.”

“And it was art.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, pleased. “But I’m your annoying. Big difference.”

The word friend doesn’t need to be said for me to feel it.

Steady. Easy. Real.

Not sharp like the thing with Rafe. Not hidden. Not made of conditions.

I lean back against the wall and let the quiet settle for a second.

Then JJ says my name again.

This time softer.

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

There’s less joking in his voice now. “You’re gonna be okay.”

I blink at the ceiling.

Whatever smart answer I could’ve given disappears before it gets there.

He keeps going, like he knows that.

“Whatever’s got you all twisted up right now, it’s not bigger than you. It just feels bigger because you’ve been sitting with it alone.”

The words hit somewhere sore. Somewhere deep.

I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes. Then, lighter, “Now go put on whatever outfit says ‘I’m emotionally unavailable but still hot.’ I’ll be outside soon.”

I laugh under my breath. “Bye, JJ.”

“Later, pretty girl.”

We hang up, and the room goes still all over again.

Too still.

I stare at my reflection in the black TV screen for another second, then push myself off the bed.

I still don’t want to see Rafe with those girls. I still don’t want to feel stupid. I still don’t want to walk into his house and act like I belong there when half the time he makes me feel like I only belong to him in private.

But JJ’s right about one thing.

I can’t keep hiding in here like four walls and a locked door are gonna save me from getting my heart broken.

If I stay, I’m hiding. If I go, I’m volunteering to watch the boy who swears he loves me pretend I’m nobody.

Some choice.

I stand and walk to my closet, fingers trailing over hangers, fabrics brushing softly against my skin.

This is what I signed up for, right? Late-night promises. Early-morning distance. His hands on me in empty rooms. His eyes sliding right past me in crowded ones. Girlfriend when it’s just us. Ghost when it’s everyone else.

I’m the one who said yes to this. I remind myself of that all the time, like it’s supposed to make the hurt feel more reasonable. Like choosing pain somehow means I should know how to carry it better.

I push hangers aside one by one.

Too soft. Too plain. Too much like I’m asking to be chosen.

I don’t want to look soft tonight. I don’t want to look like somebody waiting.

I want armor.

Something that says I’m here. Something that says you don’t get to look through me. Something that says if you’re gonna make me stand in the light alone, at least look me in the eye while you do it.

I pull out a top, then change my mind. Then a dress. Then no.

I can already picture Rafe seeing me. Really seeing me. Standing next to JJ and the others. Out in the open. Untouchable in all the ways he made me be hidden.

I wonder if he’ll flinch. If he’ll look away. If he’ll stare too long and give us both up.

By the time my phone buzzes again with a text from JJ that reads outside :), my pulse is already jumping hard enough to make my hands shake.

I take one last breath, slow and steady, and slide my phone into my pocket.

Then I head for the door.

I pull it shut behind me and hype myself up the whole walk out.

Yeah, I’m going to this party for me. For JJ. For my friends.

That’s the story I tell myself, anyway.

But underneath the cute outfit and the lip gloss and the way I keep pretending I’m not nervous, there’s the truth.

The truth is ugly. Small. Aching.

I’m going because I need to know.

I need to know if Rafe Cameron still looks at me like I’m his. Like I’m his secret. Like I’m something he doesn’t want anybody else to know about, but still can’t stand the thought of losing.

----

JJ’s truck sounds like it’s held together by spite and duct tape, rattling loud enough that I hear it before I even make it to the porch. Music leaks through the cracked windows, all fuzzy bass and beach air, and the night wraps around me the second I step outside. It’s warm in that heavy, sticky Outer Banks way, the kind of heat that settles on your skin and makes everything feel slower than it is.

JJ leans over the console and grins at me through the open passenger window. His eyes go wide, dramatic as ever. "Oh, hell no," he says, dragging the words out. "Look at you. Absolutely not. You can't just come out here lookin' like that and expect the rest of us to compete."

I roll my eyes, but the stupid smile threatening at the corner of my mouth gives me away. It helps, that easy way he looks at me like nothing’s wrong, like I’m not one bad thought away from turning around and going back inside.

"Shut up," I mutter, tugging at the hem of my top. "You said thirty minutes. If I had more warning, maybe I would've dressed worse on purpose."

"Yeah, and thank God you didn't." He gestures at me like I’m a masterpiece he personally commissioned. "This is huge for me, actually. I get to be right and pretty at the same time."

"You are not pretty."

He gasps. "Wow. That was mean. I open my truck, offer emotional support, risk my life driving this fine vehicle over unsafe roads, and this is how you treat me?"

I snort and climb in. The seat’s still warm from the day, and the whole truck smells like old fries, saltwater, sunscreen, and JJ’s cologne. Weirdly comforting. Familiar in the kind of way that lets my shoulders drop half an inch.

He glances at me as he throws the truck into drive. "You good?"

Not even close.

"Yep," I lie.

JJ huffs like he hears the lie for what it is, but he lets it sit there. "Cool. Same. I’m also super mentally stable and making excellent choices tonight."

I laugh under my breath. "That’s the biggest lie I’ve heard all day."

"Thank you," he says, pleased with himself. "Means a lot."

The Cameron place glows from halfway down the road, lights strung along the dock and backyard so perfectly it looks fake, like somebody built a party set and dropped it on the water. Music pounds low and steady from the lawn, bass carrying over the breeze before we even park. Cars line the road, people already spilling toward the back of the house in loud little groups, red cups in hand, laughter floating through the humid air.

JJ kills the engine and looks over at me. Not joking this time. Really looking.

"You sure?" he asks quietly.

The truth rises up so fast it nearly chokes me.

No.

But I nod anyway. "Yeah. If it sucks, we leave. That was the deal."

He points at me. "Exactly. We Irish goodbye the hell outta here. No guilt, no speeches. We vanish into the night like hot, emotionally damaged bandits."

"That is weirdly specific."

"It's because I care."

When I step out of the truck, the night hits all at once. Salt in the air. Bonfire smoke from somewhere downshore. Music so loud it vibrates faintly in my chest. I smooth my hands over my clothes like I can iron the nerves back out of myself if I just keep moving.

JJ falls into step beside me as we head down the narrow path toward the back of the house. The closer we get, the louder everything becomes. Voices blur together. Someone whoops near the water. A burst of laughter carries from the dock. I can already see silhouettes moving under the string lights, bodies swaying, people crowding the lawn and railings.

JJ bumps my shoulder with his. "Alright, scale of one to throwing up in a decorative plant?"

"Like... seven and a half."

"Strong number. Respectable. We can work with that. Get some water in you, maybe a snack. Bring you down to a solid four."

"You say that like you're an EMT for social disasters."

"I am," he says. "Self-appointed. Very underfunded."

That gets a real laugh out of me, small but real, and I cling to it as we round the corner of the house.

The backyard opens up in front of us in one bright, chaotic sweep. Golden lights strung through the trees. Music pounding hard enough to shake the dock boards. Kooks draped over patio chairs and leaning against each other like they’ve got nowhere else in the world to be. Somebody launches themselves off the dock to a chorus of drunken yelling and disappears into the black water below.

And there he is.

Rafe stands near the end of the dock, one hand around a drink, the other shoved in the pocket of his shorts. He’s half in shadow, half in that soft gold light, and somehow even from here he looks exactly like himself. Sharp. Unreachable. Like the whole party bends around him without him having to do anything at all. His shoulders are loose in that lazy, arrogant way he gets when he knows people are watching. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and rough and instantly familiar.

My heart stumbles so hard it almost hurts.

Before he sees me, my eyes snag on her.

She’s standing too close. Close enough that her hand brushes his arm like it belongs there. She’s smiling up at him with that polished, easy confidence Kook girls seem born with, glossy hair, perfect makeup, the kind of expression that says she already assumes she’s welcome in his space.

It feels like something cold drops straight through my stomach.

JJ follows my stare and lets out a quiet, low whistle. "Yikes," he mutters. "Okay. Didn't love that."

I tear my eyes away before Rafe can catch me looking. The last thing I need is to stand here staring at him like some pathetic girl in a sad song.

"Hey!" Kiara’s voice cuts through the music a second before she appears in front of us, hair already frizzing from the humidity, cheeks flushed. "You made it."

She hugs me before I can answer, and I cling for a second longer than I mean to. She smells like coconut sunscreen and beer and something comforting I can’t name.

"Yeah," I say when I pull back. "I made it."

John B appears behind her with that easy grin of his, lifting his cup in greeting. Pope’s right there too, quieter but warm, giving me a once-over like he’s checking whether I’m actually okay.

"Well, look who left the house," Pope says. "I was startin' to think we'd need a search party."

"Aw," I say. "You do care."

"Let's not get carried away," he replies.

JJ throws an arm around my shoulders and yanks me into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "I told you idiots," he says to the group. "Did I not say she was gonna show up lookin' dangerous? I said, and I quote, she's gonna have everybody spiraling."

Kiara snorts. "Nobody asked for your live commentary."

"No, but you're getting it anyway. That's friendship."

I try to focus on them, on the easy rhythm of the group, on how normal this should feel. But then I feel it, sharp as a touch, the unmistakable heat of somebody watching me.

I know before I look.

Still, I look.

Rafe’s staring straight at me.

Not generally in my direction. Not casually scanning the yard. At me.

His gaze is fixed and unreadable from this far, but I know his face too well. The set of his jaw is too tight. His grip around the cup looks wrong, fingers flexing once like he has to remind himself not to crush it. The girl beside him says something and laughs, but his response comes late, distracted, like he didn’t hear a word.

Our eyes lock.

Everything around me fuzzes at the edges. Music, voices, laughter, all of it dropping away for one suspended second.

I catch it there in his face. First surprise. Then something darker settling in behind it.

Possessive. Irritated. Like some part of him actually thought I wouldn’t come.

Then he looks away first.

Of course he does.

"Beer?" John B asks, already turning toward the cooler.

"Water," I say quickly. "If there is any."

JJ points at me proudly. "Hydration. Personal growth. We love to see it."

"I'll get it," Kiara says. "And if JJ vanishes, don't follow him."

JJ looks offended. "That happened one time."

"Three," Pope corrects.

"Okay, wow. You guys never let me grow."

Their bickering washes over me, grounding me for a second in something that isn’t the pull of Rafe Cameron standing twenty yards away pretending not to look at me.

JJ dips his head toward mine. "You okay?"

No.

"Yeah," I say for what has to be the fifth time tonight.

He narrows his eyes but just squeezes my shoulder once. "Remember the plan. If this goes to hell, we're gone."

"Okay."

Time starts slipping after that.

I end up perched on the railing near the back steps with Kiara and Pope, half listening to Kiara roast people’s outfits while Pope keeps track of how many drunk guys trip over the same patch of ground. I laugh in the right places. I even mean it a couple times.

But my attention keeps drifting back to the dock like it’s tied there by a string.

Rafe moves through the crowd the way he always does, like he doesn’t belong to the room so much as the room belongs to him. He doesn’t do much, just shifts from one conversation to another, murmurs something to Topper, knocks shoulders with Kelce, takes a drink, glances out over the water. But people move around him. Adjust to him. Watch him.

And every so often, his hand lands lightly at that girl’s back to guide her around somebody else.

Every time it happens, something in my chest pulls tight.

I know he doesn’t touch her the way he touches me. I know that. There’s nothing intimate about it, nothing careful or consuming. It’s casual. Thoughtless. Almost performative.

But nobody else here knows that.

To everyone watching, she’s the one next to him.

She’s the one who gets seen.

I’m halfway through Kiara’s story about one of her dad’s nightmare yacht clients when JJ materializes in front of me, slightly flushed, hair somehow messier than before.

"Dance break," he announces, holding out his hand like he's asking me to join him onstage.

I stare at him. "I don't dance."

"False. Everybody dances. Some people are just cowards about it."

"I'm not a coward."

"Great," he says immediately. "Then c'mon."

Kiara smirks into her drink. "Go. He’s gonna harass you until you do."

Pope nods. "He's like a labradoodle with a nicotine addiction."

JJ puts a hand to his chest. "That is wildly accurate and deeply hurtful."

I laugh despite myself and slide off the railing. "One song."

He brightens like I handed him a winning lottery ticket. "That's all I need, sweetheart."

He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the dance floor, if the patch of packed grass and dock boards full of sweaty drunk teenagers counts as a dance floor. The music’s louder here, bass rattling my ribs. Colored lights flash over faces, over red cups, over the water.

JJ spins once just to be obnoxious, making me stumble into a laugh.

"See?" he yells over the music. "You're already having fun."

"This is blackmail somehow," I yell back.

"No, this is enrichment."

He dances like he lives in a world where embarrassment doesn’t exist, all loose limbs and stupid confidence and zero self-preservation, and it’s impossible not to loosen up a little around him. I let the music drag me along. Not really dancing, not fully, just moving enough to stop thinking.

His hands land at my waist for a second when somebody stumbles into me, steadying me before dropping away.

And then I feel it.

That sharp, burning awareness crawling over my skin.

I turn before I can stop myself.

Rafe’s closer now, only a few yards away. The girl is off talking to somebody else, but he isn’t watching her. He isn’t watching anybody else.

He’s watching me.

His eyes drop once to where JJ’s hands had been, and something ugly flashes through his face. Anger. Jealousy. That mean, simmering kind of territorial rage he tries to hide until he can’t.

For one second, he looks like he might actually come over here and make a scene.

My heart lodges in my throat.

JJ notices me go stiff. He leans in close so I can hear him. "Hey. Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," I say too quickly.

He studies my face, brows pulling together. "You look like you're about to either cry or commit a felony. I support both. Just need a heads up."

A shaky laugh slips out of me before I can help it. "You're insane."

"Yeah," he says easily. "But I’m fun in a crisis."

He squeezes my hand once, then glances toward the coolers. "Stay here. I'm getting you water before you pass out or murder somebody."

"JJ."

"What? I'm nurturing."

I shake my head, and he grins, backing away into the crowd. "Don't disappear," he calls. "I just got you socially functional."

The second he’s gone, everything feels too loud again.

I turn, meaning to head back toward Kiara and Pope, toward safety, toward anything that isn’t standing exposed under all these lights.

Instead, I walk straight into somebody.

A solid chest. Warm hands closing around my arms before I can stumble backward.

I know the smell before I even look up. Salt. Smoke. That expensive cologne he always wears like it’s part of his skin.

My pulse stutters.

"Careful," Rafe mutters, voice low and rough, meant for me and nobody else.

I look up at him.

He’s too close. Close enough that I can see the tension in his face, the way his jaw is locked down so hard it looks painful. His eyes are bright, intense, a little wild around the edges in that way I’ve come to recognize before he says something he probably shouldn’t.

"Sorry," I say automatically.

His fingers tighten around my arms for one heartbeat, then he lets go like the contact burned him.

"What're you doing?" he asks.

It doesn't sound like a question. It sounds like he’s already angry at whatever answer I give.

I blink at him. "At a party? Existing publicly? Thought I'd try it out."

A muscle jumps in his cheek. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He flicks a glance past me, toward wherever JJ disappeared, then looks back at me, eyes hardening. "You know what."

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "You're gonna have to be more specific, Rafe. Apparently I'm doing a lot wrong lately."

His jaw works. I can practically see him trying to keep a lid on himself. "You know I don't like seeing him with his hands on you."

I stare at him for a second, stunned by the nerve of it.

"You told me to be cool tonight."

The words land hard. I see them hit.

His eyes flash. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" My voice stays low, but I can feel it shaking anyway. "You said, 'Be cool tonight, alright?' So that's what I’m doing. I'm here. I'm not making a scene. I'm not acting like your girlfriend. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

His mouth goes flat. Around us, the party keeps roaring, oblivious.

"I didn't say you had to throw yourself all over Maybank either," he says through his teeth.

I actually blink. "Throw myself all over him? Are you serious?"

He glances toward the crowd again, restless, agitated, then back at me. "You think I didn't see him? Been all over you all night, laughing in your face, touching you every two seconds like he's got some claim."

"He was dancing with me."

"Yeah, I saw that."

"And what exactly were you doing with her?" I shoot back.

That shuts him up for half a second.

His nostrils flare. "You know that's different."

"How?"

"Because it just is."

A disbelieving laugh escapes me. "Wow. Great answer. Really convincing."

"Don't start." His voice drops lower, more dangerous for how quiet it is. "You know what this is."

"Do I?" I ask. "Because from where I'm standing, it kinda looks like you get to do whatever you want in public and I’m supposed to stand here and smile about it."

He steps closer, enough that I have to tilt my chin up. I can see the anger in him, yes, but underneath it there’s something messier. Panic. Desperation. That Season 2 kind of unraveling he hides behind all that sharpness.

"You know why this can't be a thing out here," he says, glancing around like the dark itself might be listening. "You know that."

"Then say it," I whisper. "Go ahead. Say why."

He looks away for a split second, hand dragging through his hair. "Jesus Christ."

"Is it your dad?"

He says nothing.

"Your friends?"

Still nothing.

"Her?"

That one gets a reaction. His eyes snap back to mine, darker now. "You don't know anything about that."

I flinch before I can stop myself.

The second he sees it, regret cuts across his face. He curses under his breath and looks away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" My throat tightens around the words. "Because all I know is you keep telling me she's nothing, and then I come here and she's glued to your side while I get treated like some dirty little secret."

His face twists. He actually looks hurt by that, which would matter more if I wasn't already bleeding out from the truth of it.

"You are not a secret like that," he says fiercely.

"Then what am I?"

There it is.

The question that's been sitting in my chest for weeks, rotting there.

His lips part.

For one second, I really think he might say it. Might finally do something reckless and honest and real.

I see the impulse in his face. The want of it.

Then JJ’s voice cuts through from a few feet away.

"Hey, I got your water."

Rafe’s head turns. He sees JJ making his way back through the crowd, two cups in hand, expression open and easy in a way Rafe's never been a day in his life.

And I watch the walls go back up in real time.

Panic flashes across his face, quick and sharp.

"Later," he mutters, already stepping back. "We'll talk later."

"Rafe."

But he's gone.

He turns and heads back toward the dock, toward his friends, toward the girl waiting for him, sliding into that role like it never fit wrong in the first place.

I stand there staring after him, the word later bouncing around my skull like a bad joke.

Later.

Later.

Later.

Promises made in the dark that never survive under actual light.

JJ reaches me and holds out a cup. "Here." Then he sees my face properly and his expression changes. Not joking now. Not teasing. "Okay. Who am I fighting?"

I take the water just so I have something to do with my hands. The plastic is cold and damp, the ice already melting. "No one."

He squints. "That sounds fake."

"I just needed air."

JJ looks around at the open yard, the dock, the water, then back at me. "We are literally outside."

Despite everything, I let out a weak laugh. "You know what I mean."

He watches me for another second, then jerks his chin toward the far end of the dock, where it's darker and quieter. "C'mon. Let's go sit somewhere away from all the finance majors and spray tans."

I don't argue. I just follow.

As we pass the place where Rafe’s standing with Topper and Kelce, I can feel his eyes drag over us again. Heavy. Burning. Possessive in a way that would almost feel good if it wasn't so useless.

I don't look back.

The far end of the dock is quieter, the music dulled by distance and water. JJ drops down first, legs hanging over the edge, and pats the space beside him.

"Sit. Brood. Hydrate."

I lower myself next to him, gripping the cup like it’s the only thing holding me together.

For a minute, neither of us says anything. The water laps softly against the pilings below. Somewhere behind us, somebody shrieks with laughter. The party keeps going like the world didn't just split open inside my chest.

JJ bumps his shoulder into mine. "So. You wanna talk about it, or do you want me to start ranking everybody here by who'd survive longest in the wilderness? Because honestly, Topper's out first. Soft hands."

A cracked laugh slips out of me.

"There she is," he says quietly.

I stare out over the black water. "I don't even know how to explain it."

"You don't have to explain it good," he says. "You can explain it bad. That's what I'm here for."

I swallow hard. "I thought if I came tonight, maybe it'd feel different. Maybe if I just... saw it, dealt with it, I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't hurt as much."

JJ is quiet for a beat. "And?"

"I'm still collecting data," I say, voice thin.

He snorts softly. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

We sit in silence again, but it doesn't press on me. It just stays there, steady and warm and patient.

Eventually he says, "I know you're not telling me everything."

I glance at him.

He keeps his eyes on the water. "And I'm not gonna make you. But I am gonna say this. If some guy is making you feel like crap, whether he's doing it on purpose or just because he's too screwed up to do any better, that's on him. Not you."

My throat burns instantly.

"I feel stupid," I admit, hating how small my voice sounds.

That gets his attention. He turns to look at me fully, blue eyes sharp and serious in a way people always forget he can be.

"Hey," he says. "No. You're not stupid."

I look down at the cup in my hands. "Feels like it."

"No," he says again, firmer this time. "You're hopeful. Big difference. Stupid is, like, me trying to jump a dirt bike over a drainage ditch when I was twelve. Hopeful is just... wanting someone to be better than they are."

That hits me hard enough I have to blink fast.

He notices, of course he does, but he's kind enough not to call it out. He just nudges my shoulder again. "For the record, if a dude's got you crying at a party, he's automatically on my enemy list. That's policy."

A shaky breath leaves me. "That's a dramatic policy."

"I am a dramatic person."

I let the night air fill my lungs, cool and salty and easier to breathe than anything back there under the lights.

"I just wish," I say quietly, "people meant what they say when nobody's watching."

JJ's face shifts, something softer coming over it. He looks back out at the water and nods once. "Yeah," he says. "Me too."

Behind us, the party roars on. Somewhere in that noise, Rafe Cameron is laughing at something he probably didn't hear, standing next to a girl he keeps insisting means nothing, pretending he's fine because that's easier than being honest.

Out here, on the edge of his dock, I sit beside the boy who came to get me when I couldn't drag myself out of my room, who keeps making me laugh without asking for anything back, who doesn't know the whole story but still somehow knows exactly where it hurts.

I press my lips together, the words I can't say crowding up behind my teeth.

JJ nudges me again, lighter this time. "Hey. Lights are on, yeah?"

I look at him.

"And you're still here," he says. "That counts for something."

I let that settle.

Because he's right.

I'm still here.

Even if Rafe won't choose me where people can see.

Even if I'm the thing he keeps hidden instead of the girl he stands beside.

I'm still here.

And maybe for tonight, that has to be enough.

Back near the center of the dock, Rafe stands half in shadow, drink untouched in his hand, jaw locked so hard it looks vicious. Topper says something to him and laughs, but Rafe barely hears it.

All he can see is me sitting at the end of the dock with JJ. The way my shoulder leans into his. The way my head tips toward him when he talks. The way I look calmer with Maybank at my side than I have looked with Rafe all damn night.

His grip tightens on the cup until the plastic buckles inward with a soft crack.

"Yo, Rafe." Topper knocks his shoulder. "You good, man?"

Rafe drags his gaze away from the end of the dock and forces his shoulders loose. Forces his mouth into something like a smirk.

"Yeah," he says, too fast. "I'm good."

It's a lie and he knows it.

Because when his eyes cut back to me one more time, something ugly twists under his ribs.

Not just jealousy.

Not just anger.

Fear.

Real fear.

Because for the first time, watching me sit with somebody else on the edge of his dock, Rafe isn't so sure I'm still gonna be there later. Not waiting for him in the dark. Not making it easy for him to come find me once everybody's gone home and the lights are off and he can pretend this isn't real.

Hands on the Wheel - Part 1 here

P A R T T W O

The next morning felt unreal.

Like the whole night before had happened to someone else. Someone I’d watched from far away instead of actually lived through with my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.

But my body remembered.

My shoulders were still tight. My stomach still dropped every time I thought about the car, the speed, the way his voice had gone cold and sharp and then weirdly soft when he realized I was actually leaving.

I hadn’t answered any of his texts.

Hadn’t even opened them.

I just stared at my phone every time it lit up, then turned it facedown again like that was somehow gonna make the knot in my chest loosen.

It didn’t.

By the time I found Sarah, I was running on basically no sleep and way too much adrenaline.

She took one look at me, paused with her coffee halfway to her mouth, and frowned. “What happened?”

I gave a weak shrug and looked off to the side like maybe that would make me less obvious. “Nothing.”

Sarah lowered her coffee and narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, don’t do that. Do not give me the fake ‘I’m fine’ shrug. I know that shrug.” She pointed at me with the cup. “That shrug is terrible.”

Even with everything, I let out the tiniest laugh. I rubbed my palm against my jeans and looked back at her. “We need to talk.”

Her whole expression changed. She set her drink down right away and straightened up. “Okay. Right now?”

I nodded once.

Sarah didn’t even hesitate. She jerked her head toward the quieter side of the room. “Come on.”

We ended up tucked into a corner away from everyone else, and the second she looked at me again, really looked at me, the whole thing came rushing back.

I crossed my arms over myself, mostly without thinking, and stared down at the floor. “Rafe lost it last night.”

Sarah’s face tightened instantly. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “What do you mean, lost it?”

I picked at the sleeve of my hoodie and kept my eyes on my hands. “He got mad after the bonfire.”

Sarah tilted her head, already looking unimpressed. “Mad why?”

I swallowed and gave this humorless little shrug. “Because I was talking to some guy.”

Sarah blinked slowly, then let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh my God. Of course.”

I laughed once, but there was nothing funny about it. “Yeah. Of course.”

Sarah shifted her weight and lifted her brows. “Like talking talking?” she asked. Then she waved a hand. “Or literally just existing near another male?”

I looked up just enough to meet her eyes for a second. “Pretty much the second one.”

Sarah muttered, “Insane,” under her breath, then shook her head. “Actually insane.”

Her jaw was already set, like she knew exactly where this was going and hated it before I even got the rest out.

I took a breath that didn’t help and pressed my arms tighter across my stomach. “We got in the car and he just...” I stopped for a second and swallowed hard. “He started driving like an idiot. Like actually scaring me on purpose.”

Sarah went still.

The kind of still that always meant she was trying really hard not to react too fast.

She lowered her voice and looked at me carefully. “On purpose?”

I let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one and nodded, staring past her shoulder. “Yeah. On purpose.”

Sarah lifted a hand between us and shook her head like she needed me to pause for a second. “Wait. No. I need you to say that again because I wanna make sure I’m hearing this right.” She stared at me, her voice going flat. “He was angry, and then he started driving reckless while you were in the car?”

I nodded again.

Sarah just looked at me for a second, totally stunned. “Are you kidding me?”

I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck and looked down. “I wish I was.”

She dragged a hand down her face and stepped back. “Y/N, that is not just him being moody.” She dropped her hand and looked at me hard. “That is psycho behavior.”

I stayed quiet.

Sarah caught my expression immediately. She pointed at me, almost offended. “No. Don’t make that face.”

I blinked and frowned. “What face?”

She gave me a look. “That face where you’re already halfway to defending him.”

I straightened a little and shook my head. “I’m not defending him.”

Sarah let out a dry laugh and crossed her arms tighter. “You were literally about to.”

I frowned at her. “I was not.”

“You absolutely were,” Sarah shot back, not missing a beat.

I looked away and picked at my thumbnail. “I was just gonna say he didn’t...”

Sarah cut in right away, holding both hands out in disbelief. “He didn’t what?” she demanded. “He didn’t mean it? He didn’t think? He was upset? He was having a moment?”

I didn’t answer.

Sarah threw both hands up. “There it is,” she said. “Exactly that.”

I hated how predictable it sounded, mostly because she was right.

I swallowed and said quietly, “I told him to slow down.” I glanced up at her, then back down. “And he just kept going.”

Sarah’s expression changed again, the anger turning into something colder. She leaned forward a little. “You told him to slow down?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She stared at me. “And he kept going?”

“Yes.”

Sarah looked away for half a second like she was physically stopping herself from losing it. Then she looked back at me. “Oh, absolutely not.”

I told her in pieces.

Not perfectly.

Not all at once.

Just little bits. The way he’d been angry before we even left. The way the car picked up speed when I told him to slow down. The way he kept twisting the fight until somehow I was the one supposed to feel bad for him.

Sarah didn’t interrupt much.

She just listened with her arms folded and her eyes getting harder with every sentence.

When I finally stopped, Sarah looked at me for one long second and said flatly, “I hate him.”

I looked up, tired more than anything. “You don’t hate him.”

Sarah gave a tiny shrug and lifted one shoulder. “Okay, fine. At this exact moment?” She held my gaze. “I hate him a lot.”

That almost made me smile.

She noticed and pointed at me. “Like, genuinely, what is wrong with him?” she asked, sounding completely disgusted. “You flirt with a guy, or don’t even flirt, apparently, just breathe near one, and his reaction is to turn into some Fast and Furious villain?”

I let out a small breath and nodded. “I know.”

Sarah pushed off the wall and started pacing a little. “No, because that’s crazy,” she said, looking back at me. “That’s actually crazy.”

I pressed my lips together. “I know.”

She stopped pacing and looked at me dead-on. “That’s not jealousy. That’s control.”

I flinched a little at the word.

Sarah noticed right away. Her voice softened, but only a little. “I’m serious.”

I nodded slowly. “I know you are.”

Sarah exhaled through her nose and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “And then what?” she asked. “How did it stop?”

I looked down at the floor and heard my own voice go quieter. “And then I got out.” I rubbed my arm and swallowed. “At a stop sign. I just got out and walked.”

Sarah blinked at me, stunned. “You what?”

I gave her a tired look. “I got out.”

Sarah stared at me. “Of the car.”

I nodded once. “Yes, Sarah.”

She lifted both brows. “In the middle of the night.”

“Yes.”

She just looked at me for a second, then pushed a hand into her hair. “You walked home?”

I gave a small shrug and looked away. “Some of it.”

Sarah’s mouth actually fell open. “Y/N.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “I called for a ride eventually.”

Sarah repeated it like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Eventually?” She stepped closer. “What does eventually mean?”

I sighed and rubbed at my forehead. “I don’t know. After a while.”

Sarah stared at me. “A while?”

I looked at her, exhausted. “Sarah.”

She shook her head, not letting it go. “No, because what is a while? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?” She searched my face. “Were you alone?”

I answered quietly. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened immediately. “Oh my God.”

I crossed my arms again and looked away. “I’m fine.”

Sarah pointed at me again, sharp and immediate. “You are not allowed to ‘I’m fine’ me right now.”

I let out a breath and said it again, quieter this time. “I am fine.” Even to me, the words sounded weak.

Sarah rubbed a hand over her face and muttered, “I swear to God.”

Then she straightened and held her hand out toward me. “Phone.”

I frowned at her. “What?”

She wiggled her fingers impatiently. “Let me see if he texted you.”

I hesitated. “I already told you he did.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “I wanna see if he went with the classic lineup.”

I blinked. “What classic lineup?”

Sarah started counting on her fingers, her expression going dry and disgusted. “One, ‘Where are you.’ Two, ‘Answer me.’ Three, ‘I’m sorry, but you made me mad.’” She lifted another finger. “Four, ‘You’re overreacting.’” Then she lifted her whole hand. “Five, random sad boy message at two in the morning.”

I stared at her.

Sarah stared right back. “How close am I?”

I made a face and huffed out a breath. “Annoyingly close.”

Sarah dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Men are literally so embarrassing.”

That got a real laugh out of me, small and shaky but real.

Sarah’s expression softened right away. She pointed at me gently. “There she is.”

There was a second of silence after that.

Then she looked back at me, really looked at me.

Her voice dropped when she asked, “Are you okay?”

And that hit harder than I expected.

Because I didn’t really know.

I was okay in the technical sense. Nothing had happened, not really, not in the way people usually meant it.

But something had happened too.

Something that felt harder to explain.

I looked down, picking at the edge of my sleeve, and admitted, “I don’t know.”

Sarah’s expression softened.

She stepped closer and said quietly, “Okay.” After a second, she added, “Then you don’t have to know yet.”

I looked at her.

She leaned in a little, her eyes steady on mine. “But what he did was not okay,” she said. “And I need you to hear me when I say that.”

I swallowed and nodded.

Sarah kept her voice calm, but firm. “He can’t do that to you.”

I looked away. “I know.”

She shook her head. “No, I mean it.” She waited until I looked at her again. “He can’t scare you because he’s mad. He can’t act like that and then expect you to just get over it because he says sorry, or because he had a bad night, or whatever excuse he comes up with.”

I pressed my lips together.

The worst part was that I already knew what his apology would sound like.

A little defensive.

A little wounded.

Just enough guilt to make me question if I was being unfair.

Sarah knew it too.

She gave me a knowing look. “He’s gonna try to talk his way around it.”

I let out a tired laugh. “Obviously.”

Sarah folded her arms again. “He’s gonna act all soft and tragic.”

I snorted and tipped my head back against the wall. “With the whole tortured stare.”

Sarah pointed at me right away. “Yes. Exactly.” She dropped her voice in mock imitation. “‘You know I’d never hurt you.’”

I groaned and covered my face for a second. “Stop. That’s literally what he’s gonna do.”

Sarah dropped her hand. “I know. Because boys like that all use the same script.” She lifted a brow. “They just change the outfit.”

I laughed again, this time a little more for real.

Sarah let me have the laugh, then her tone went serious again. “And you can’t let him confuse you,” she said. “You can be sad. You can love him. You can miss him. Whatever.” She pressed a hand to her chest, then pointed at me. “But do not let him make you feel crazy for being upset about this.”

I dropped my hands and looked at her. “I came to you, didn’t I?”

That got the smallest smile out of her.

Sarah nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You did.”

Then she reached over and squeezed my hand.

“And for the record,” Sarah added, her mouth tightening again, “if he tries to pull something when I’m around, I will actually ruin his day.”

I snorted and glanced at her. “How?”

Sarah gave a thoughtful hum and tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. Public humiliation. Creative insults. A very targeted drink spill.” She shrugged. “I’ll decide in the moment.”

I shook my head, smiling anyway. “You’re insane.”

Sarah put a hand to her chest like she was offended. “I’m loyal,” she corrected.

I smiled despite myself.

Still, she didn’t look relieved.

If anything, she looked like she was already bracing for the next part.

Which, unfortunately, came sooner than either of us wanted.

Later that afternoon, the country club was all bright sun, trimmed grass, and people pretending their lives were perfect.

Everything looked polished.

Neat.

Controlled.

Which felt almost insulting, considering how messy everything in my head still was.

----

Out on the golf course, Rafe was doing what Rafe did best.

Acting like nothing got to him.

He stood with a club in one hand and his sunglasses shoved up in his hair, all loose posture and bored expression, like he wasn’t two seconds away from snapping at literally anything.

Kelce was talking shit about something pointless, as usual, and Topper was half listening, half lining up his shot like he was on the PGA tour and not three bad swings away from launching his club into a lake.

Rafe took his shot hard enough to make it sound personal.

The ball flew down the fairway.

Kelce let out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. You trying to kill it or fuck it?”

Topper snorted, not even looking up. “He’s in one of his weird little moods again.”

Rafe rolled his eyes and grabbed another ball. “Shut up.”

Topper finally looked over at him and smirked. “You’re the one swinging like the ball called your girl a whore.”

Kelce leaned on his club, grinning. “Speaking of. You and Y/N fight or what?”

That made Rafe go still for half a second.

Tiny pause.

Barely there.

But it was there.

Topper caught it immediately and gave this smug little nod. “Ah. There it is.”

Rafe set his jaw and looked down the course instead of at either of them. “Mind your business.”

Kelce’s grin got wider. “So yes.”

Rafe adjusted his grip on the club. “It’s not a thing.”

Topper and Kelce exchanged a look.

That alone said enough.

Kelce gave a shrug. “If she’s not answering you, that’s usually a thing.”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “She’s being dramatic.”

Topper looked over at him, brows lifting. “That sounds like you definitely did something.”

Rafe let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Why do you both automatically assume it was me?”

Topper gave him a look. “Because you’re you.”

Kelce laughed. “Seriously, man. Look at your face right now.”

Rafe dropped a ball near his feet and teed it up harder than necessary. “Nothing happened. She got pissed, made a whole thing out of it, got out of the car.”

Topper straightened. “She got out of the car?”

Rafe instantly got defensive. “At a stop sign. Relax. I wasn’t gonna hit her with the damn car.”

Kelce’s grin faded a little. “Okay, but why was she getting out?”

Rafe didn’t answer.

He just stared down at the ball like it had personally offended him.

Topper narrowed his eyes. “Rafe.”

Rafe took the shot.

It sliced badly into the rough.

Kelce winced. “That was disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Topper muttered, watching the ball disappear. “Not just the shot either.”

Rafe glared at both of them. “Can we not do this?”

Kelce lifted both hands. “Do what?”

“Act like I committed a felony because she got mad.”

Topper adjusted his grip on his club and gave him a flat look. “No one said that.”

Kelce looked between them, then back at Rafe. “What’d you even do?”

Rafe scoffed. “Nothing.”

Topper laughed under his breath. “That means it was bad.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Rafe snapped.

Kelce tilted his head. “Then why’s she ignoring you?”

Rafe opened his mouth, then shut it again.

That was answer enough.

Topper pointed at him with his club. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Kelce started walking toward his own ball, still talking. “What, you got jealous? Said something stupid? Started a fight over nothing?”

Rafe followed a few steps behind, jaw tight. “She was talking to some guy.”

Topper let out a laugh. “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”

Kelce looked back over his shoulder. “No way.”

Rafe’s voice went flat. “I said what I said.”

Topper shook his head. “So she talked to a guy, and you lost your mind?”

“I didn’t lose my mind.”

Kelce barked out a laugh. “You absolutely lost your mind.”

Rafe stared him down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kelce spread his hands. “I know enough. She flirted with some dude, you got pissy, now she won’t answer you. Pretty simple.”

Topper bent to line up his next shot. “That’s embarrassing, by the way.”

Rafe scoffed. “Oh, like either of you would be fine with your girl all over some guy in front of you.”

Topper looked up. “Talking to someone isn’t being all over them.”

Kelce smirked. “Depends how hot the guy was.”

Topper snorted. “Shut up.”

Kelce took his shot too fast and immediately cursed when it hooked left. “Fuck. That was still better than yours.”

“It literally wasn’t,” Topper said.

“It looked better.”

“That’s not how golf works, dumbass.”

Kelce ignored him and looked back at Rafe. “So what, she’s ghosting you now?”

Rafe looked away. “She hasn’t answered.”

Topper whistled low. “That bad, huh?”

Kelce gave him a nasty little grin. “Just fuck her back into her place.”

Rafe’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the fuck up.”

For the first time, Kelce looked a little surprised.

Topper glanced between them and let out a quiet, “Well.”

Kelce lifted his brows. “What?”

Rafe stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “I said shut the fuck up.”

Kelce held up a hand, half amused, half backing off. “Jesus. Fine.”

Topper looked at Rafe for a second longer, like that reaction had told him more than anything else had.

Then, because he was still Topper, he broke the tension with, “You’re both acting insane. Also, Kelce, if you say something that stupid again, I’m hitting you with my club.”

Kelce grinned. “You say that like it’s not foreplay.”

Topper looked disgusted. “Nobody wants to fuck you, man.”

Kelce put a hand to his chest. “That’s not what your mom said.”

Topper took a step toward him. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Kelce laughed and backed up. “See? Emotional. Must be that time of the month.”

“God, you suck,” Topper said, trying not to laugh.

Rafe shook his head and grabbed another ball, but he wasn’t really in it. He looked pissed now in a way that wasn’t for show anymore.

Kelce noticed too, even if he didn’t say it.

Topper did.

He set his club down and looked at Rafe. “What actually happened?”

Rafe didn’t answer right away.

He stared out across the course, squinting into the sun.

Then he shrugged, but it looked forced. “She was being annoying. I told her to stop acting like a brat. She kept going. I got sick of it.”

Topper’s face changed a little. “And?”

Rafe’s jaw flexed. “And nothing.”

Kelce gave him a look. “That’s bullshit.”

Rafe snapped another ball onto the tee. “I drove. She freaked out. End of story.”

Topper went quiet for a second. “You scared her?”

Rafe looked at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

Topper didn’t look convinced.

Neither did Kelce.

But Kelce, being Kelce, only lasted about three seconds before ruining the moment.

He looked down at the bunker, then at Topper. “Bet you twenty bucks you chunk this into the sand like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”

Topper looked offended. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does. There’s panic, confusion, no technique.”

Topper laughed despite himself. “You’re such a loser.”

Kelce grinned. “And yet I’m still right.”

Topper took the shot.

The ball clipped the edge and dropped straight into the bunker.

Kelce doubled over laughing. “Holy shit. Exactly like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”

“Shut up,” Topper said, laughing now too.

Even Rafe snorted at that, barely.

For a second, it almost felt normal again.

Kelce was still laughing when he straightened up and pointed at the sand. “That ball got less action than you do.”

Topper flipped him off. “Eat shit.”

Kelce grinned. “Take me to dinner first.”

Topper groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“Natural talent.”

Teenage boy stupidity moved on fast, and within minutes they were right back in it.

Talking shit.

Arguing over whose shot counted.

Making stupid jokes that got worse every time one of them laughed.

Calling each other idiots.

Pretending nothing serious existed as long as they stayed loud enough.

----

At the club bar, the air was cooler, shaded from the heat outside.

Sarah sat across from me with a drink she’d barely touched, watching me over the rim of the glass like she was trying not to push too hard.

I appreciated that.

Because if she pushed, I’d probably crack.

“I just don’t get why they always act like being jealous is romantic,” I said, tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingertip. “Like if a guy acts insane enough, it means he cares more.”

Sarah made a face and set her drink down. “Because this place is allergic to emotional maturity.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

She leaned back in her chair and glanced around the room. “Seriously. Half the people here need therapy, a reality check, and like... a court-ordered personality transplant.”

That got a real smile out of me, even if it didn’t last.

“Maybe two transplants,” I muttered.

Sarah pointed at me. “Exactly. See? You get it.”

I shook my head and looked down at my drink again. “It’s just so pathetic. Like, congratulations, you scared me. What a flex.”

Sarah’s expression hardened. “Yeah. Real prince charming behavior.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but Sarah’s eyes shifted past me.

Her whole face changed in that tiny, immediate way that told me exactly what I was about to see before I even turned around.

Rafe.

Kelce and Topper were with him, still carrying that sunburned, careless energy from the course, but the second my eyes met Rafe’s, it all dropped out.

The room didn’t actually go quiet.

It just felt like it did.

Kelce looked between us once and suddenly got very interested in the bottles behind the bar. Topper, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Rafe stared at me for half a second too long.

There was no anger on his face this time.

Just tension.

And something almost uncertain, which looked so wrong on him it threw me more than I wanted it to.

Sarah sat up straighter beside me.

Of course she did.

Rafe stepped closer, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t leaving. He shoved one hand into his pocket and looked at me like he was trying to keep himself under control. “Can we talk?”

I looked back at my drink. “No.”

It came out flat.

Simple.

No room to twist it into something else.

Rafe stayed where he was anyway, like he thought if he just stood there long enough I’d eventually cave. “Y/N.”

I still didn’t look at him. “I said no.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Can you not do this here?”

That made me look up.

A sharp little laugh almost came out, but I swallowed it.

“Do what here?” I asked. “Refuse to help you act like last night didn’t happen?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Sarah stayed quiet, but I could feel her listening to every word.

Rafe glanced at her for half a second, then looked back at me. “I just wanna talk to you. Alone.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

His mouth twitched, frustrated. “Seriously?”

I gave him a blank look. “Seriously.”

Kelce shifted awkwardly behind him. Topper looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow all of us.

Rafe rubbed at his jaw and lowered his voice. “You’re really gonna do this right now?”

I stared at him. “You mean in public? Where people can see you being the problem?”

His eyes flashed. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, go ahead,” I said. “What exactly is it you want from me?”

Rafe laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t amused. “I want you to stop acting like I’m some psycho because we had a fight.”

Sarah let out the tiniest scoff beside me.

I turned fully toward him then. “A fight?”

Rafe spread his hands a little, already defensive. “Yeah, a fight.”

“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me.”

His expression hardened. “I was not driving like a maniac.”

I stared at him. “See, that right there? That’s exactly why I’m not doing this with you.”

Rafe leaned in a little, voice low. “I wasn’t gonna do anything to you.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is?” he snapped, and there he was.

Not the polished version.

The real one.

The one who always sounded most like himself when he was angry and trying not to be.

I stood up before I even realized I was doing it.

“What is the point?” I repeated. “The point is that I told you I was scared and you kept going.”

Rafe’s face changed, just slightly. “You always do this.”

I blinked at him. “Do what?”

“You take it way too far.” He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling. “You act like everything is some huge thing when it’s not.”

Topper looked down at the floor.

Kelce rubbed the back of his neck.

Good.

Let them hear it.

Let it sit there.

I laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, okay. So I’m dramatic now?”

Rafe lowered his voice like that made him sound more reasonable. “I’m saying you know how to push people.”

Sarah sat forward immediately. “Okay, no.”

Rafe looked at her, irritated. “Stay out of it.”

Sarah’s brows shot up. “You walked over here.”

“Sarah,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off him.

She leaned back, but only barely.

Rafe looked at me again. “I’m trying to fix this.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re trying to shut it down before people hear about it.”

His whole posture shifted at that.

Not much.

Just enough.

Because it was true, and he knew it.

“That’s not what this is,” he said.

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His mouth opened, then shut again.

And honestly, that was answer enough.

I folded my arms. “Exactly.”

Rafe looked away for a second, then back at me. “You really wanna do this in front of them?”

I let out a short laugh. “You keep saying that like I’m the one who brought this to the bar.”

He stepped closer. “Can you stop talking to me like I’m the enemy?”

I looked at him for a second, and that almost hurt more than the rest of it.

“Then stop acting like one.”

That landed.

I saw it in the way his expression flickered.

For a second, he actually looked hit.

Then it was gone, covered back up in irritation and pride.

“You’re seriously just gonna keep shutting me out?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Until you grow up.”

Kelce looked away. Topper went very still.

Rafe gave this short, disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand over his mouth. “Grow up?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me. “You think that’s what this is?”

“I think you don’t get to scare me because you’re mad, then come find me the next day and act like I’m being difficult for not wanting to talk.”

His jaw tightened again. “Scare you?”

I cut him off before he could start.

“Yes. Scare me.”

The words sat there between us.

Heavy.

Ugly.

True.

Rafe looked at me like he wanted to argue with it, like his first instinct was still to push back hard enough to make the whole thing disappear.

But he couldn’t.

Not with Topper and Kelce standing there.

Not with Sarah right next to me.

Not with me looking right at him.

“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me,” I said. “Then when I told you I was scared, you called me dramatic. So no, Rafe, I’m not doing this thing where you come over here and try to smooth it out because people are watching and you don’t like how this looks.”

His face changed again.

Not a lot.

Just enough.

Because that part was true too.

Rafe looked down for a second, then back at me. “You think that’s all I care about?”

I held his stare. “Right now? Yeah.”

He laughed once, harsh and offended. “You know what, fine.” He nodded like he was talking himself into staying calm. “Fine. Be mad. But don’t stand there and act like I was trying to hurt you.”

I went still. “I don’t actually care what you were trying to do.”

That shut him up.

I could see the exact second it landed.

“Because you still did it,” I said quietly.

Silence.

Even Sarah looked a little surprised at that one.

Rafe’s face went still.

Not cold.

Not angry.

Just hit.

I picked up my bag from the chair beside me.

“You need to grow up,” I said. “Seriously. You can’t keep losing it every time you feel out of control and then expect everyone else to clean up the mess you made.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, wanted to pull me back into the conversation on his terms.

For once, I didn’t let him.

“You wanna talk?” I said. “Figure out how to be someone I actually feel safe with first.”

Sarah stood up beside me and grabbed her bag too. “Come on,” she said.

I didn’t take my eyes off Rafe.

“I mean it,” I said. “Grow up.”

Then I turned and walked away with Sarah next to me, leaving him standing there with Kelce and Topper in the middle of all that polished country club perfection, like maybe for once there wasn’t an easy joke or a smooth enough line to get him out of what he’d done.

Behind me, no one called my name.

Tomato soup, Cheese toasties and Parmesan cheese

Dad!Rafe Cameron x Reader 

Lana is 5 years old 

Dalton is 4 months old

“Grab that one for me, princess,” Rafe said to his five-year-old daughter, Lana, nodding toward the packet of Parmesan.

“Okay, Daddy,” she replied with a smile, reaching up to take the cheese from the shelf.

Rafe chuckled as she carefully hugged the parmesan packet to her chest like it was fragile. “Good job. You’re my best helper today.”

“I always help,” Lana said seriously, toddling back over and dropping it into the cart with a proud thump. “What’s next?”

Rafe glanced at his list, then leaned down to her level. “We need pasta. Think you can spot it before me?”

Her eyes widened. “Like a race?”

“Exactly like a race,” he smirked.

Lana gasped dramatically and spun around, scanning the aisle. “There!” she pointed, already halfway down the row.

“Hey—no running in the grocery store,” Rafe laughed, pushing the cart after her. “You’re too fast.”

She stopped by the shelves of boxes, hands on her hips. “Daddy, there’s too many. Which one do you like?”

Rafe picked up two boxes, pretending to think hard. “Hmm. This one… or this one…”

Lana squinted, then tapped the blue box. “That one. It’s happier.”

“Happier pasta?” he raised an eyebrow, amused. “Alright, I trust your judgment.”

As he put it in the cart, she beamed. “See? I’m good at shopping.”

“You really are,” he said softly. “Couldn’t do this without you.”

They moved on to the cereal aisle, where Lana’s eyes immediately locked onto a brightly colored box. She tugged gently on his sleeve. “Daddy… can we get this one?”

Rafe followed her gaze and sighed playfully. “Does it have marshmallows?”

She nodded. “And stars.”

He pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Well, stars are important.”

“Yes!” Lana cheered quietly, clapping once before remembering where they were.

As they headed toward the checkout, she leaned against the cart, swinging her legs. “This was fun.”

Rafe smiled down at her, feeling lighter than he had all week. “Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”

---

“Babe?” I called out when I heard the front door open. I was stirring a pot of tomato soup on the hob—the same one Lana and I had made earlier. Rafe had decided we needed cheese toasties to go with it, but we’d run out of Parmesan, so the two of them had gone to the shop.

“Yeah, baby,” Rafe replied from the hallway as I shifted Dalton higher on my hip.

“Mummy!” a little voice called out, followed by the sound of tiny feet pattering into the kitchen. Lana appeared, clutching a shopping bag that was far too big for her. It didn’t look very heavy, though.

“Ooo, what’s in there, love?” I asked as Dalton giggled softly against my side.

“We got Parmesan!” she squealed—her favourite cheese. “Daddy made us get pasta too. He says it’s for your lunch tomorrow.”

I smiled to myself. He really was a good husband. And a great dad.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe said as he stepped into the kitchen. He kissed my cheek before taking Dalton from my arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his tiny head. Then he looked down at our girl.

“You gonna help Daddy make the toasties for Mummy?” he asked, settling Dalton into his high chair.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said with a grin.

Rafe smiled at her enthusiasm, grabbing the loaf of bread from the counter. “Alright, chef Lana. First rule—clean hands.”

She immediately held them up. “Already clean!”

He laughed. “Of course they are.”

I watched from the stove as he lifted her onto the little step stool beside the counter. “Okay,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a big secret, “you’re in charge of the cheese.”

Lana gasped. “The important job?”

“The most important job,” Rafe nodded seriously.

She carefully opened the parmesan packet, sprinkling some onto the bread a little too generously. “Daddy, is this enough?”

Rafe peeked over. “That’s… a lot.”

She frowned. “But mummy likes cheese.”

He grinned. “You’re right. Carry on.”

From his high chair, Dalton banged his hands happily against the tray. “Ba!”

“You hear that?” I smiled. “He agrees with Lana.”

Rafe leaned over to Dalton, mock-whispering, “Buddy, you’re not getting toasties yet.”

Dalton responded by squealing and kicking his feet.

Lana looked over. “He can have soup though.”

“Eventually,” I said, laughing. “When he’s bigger.”

Rafe slid the pan onto the stove and glanced at me. “Smells good in here.”

“That’s because Lana helped,” I said.

Lana puffed her chest proudly. “I’m a good cooker.”

Rafe nodded as he flipped a toastie. “Best one I know.”

She giggled, watching the cheese melt. “Mummy, can we all eat together?”

“Of course,” I replied softly.

White coat, scrubs and an ID badge

Doctor!RafeCameron - Situationship 

I’d been in hospital exam rooms before, but something about sitting on that paper-covered table felt more humiliating today than usual. The paper crackled under my bare thighs every time I shifted, clinging obnoxiously to my skin. The air felt too cold against the thin gown, like the AC was set for equipment, not people.

Maybe it was because I was exhausted, that deep, heavy tired that settled behind my eyes and made everything feel foggy and too sharp at the same time. Or because the bright fluorescent lights overhead made everything look harsher. The corners of the room felt scraped raw by the brightness. The pain felt sharper. The nerves felt louder. And the guilt, the fact that I shouldn’t have waited two full days before finally coming in, sat like a stone in my chest.

But the biggest reason was the one I tried not to think about.

The door opened with a soft click.

Rafe stepped in, the same way he did every morning when he started his shift, like the room belonged to him and he was already ten minutes into his day. White coat, ID badge clipped neatly to the lapel, blue scrubs slightly wrinkled from what I knew was a long night. His hair was a little messy, the front pushed up like he’d run his hand through it too many times between patients. There were faint shadows under his eyes. He had that focused expression he always wore at work, the one that pulled his attention inward and made everything else fade.

He looked like a doctor.

Which was the point.

But he also paused the moment he saw me.

It was fast, maybe half a second. Someone else wouldn’t have noticed the way his shoulders went still or how his eyes widened just slightly before he schooled his face. But I did. I always did.

“Hey,” he said. His voice came out calm, measured, in that way he only managed when he was deliberately trying to stay neutral. “When did this start?”

No greeting. No smile. Straight to business.

That was also the point.

I swallowed. My mouth felt dry and tasted faintly like the bad coffee I’d choked down hours ago. “Two days ago.”

He set the chart down on the counter with more care than necessary. “You didn’t tell me.”

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I stared at the white tile floor. “I didn’t want to bug you while you were working.”

His jaw tightened almost instantly. It wasn’t dramatic or angry. Just that small, controlled clench he got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. I could almost hear the words he didn’t say: Seriously? We’re doing this again?

“Okay,” he said, in that patient but not really patient tone. “Describe the pain.”

I forced myself to focus. “Lower stomach. Sharp. Mostly on the right.”

His pen moved across the chart. “Radiating anywhere?”

“No.”

“Fever? Nausea?”

“No fever. A little nauseous this morning.” I tried to say it lightly, like it was no big deal, but my voice sounded thin.

He nodded, already pulling on gloves. The latex snapped softly around his wrists. His eyes drifted briefly to my hands, specifically my left one, and I realized my ring was still on. I’d meant to take it off in the car, but I’d been too busy trying not to throw up and convincing myself this was nothing.

He didn’t say anything about it. He never did in here.

But his eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have, just enough for my stomach to twist for a reason unrelated to the pain.

“Lie down,” he said, his voice softening just slightly, smoothing out the edges.

I eased back onto the table. The paper beneath me crackled loudly, the sound too big for such a small movement. The thin pillow crinkled behind my head. The ceiling tiles above me were speckled, and one corner was stained a faint yellow, like water had seeped through at some point.

“Tell me where it hurts the most,” he said, placing his hand gently on my abdomen.

His fingers were warm despite the gloves. They pressed through the thin cotton of the gown, slow and careful. I’d always noticed that about him, the steadiness of his hands. They never shook. Even now, when mine wanted to.

He pressed lightly at first, moving in small, methodical circles. He wasn’t dramatic about it. No intense stare, no lingering touch that would give anything away. Just a doctor doing his job. But there was something familiar in the way he watched my face for reactions. Not clinically. Personally. Like he already knew all my tells and was trying very hard to pretend he didn’t.

His gaze dipped to my eyes every time his fingers pressed a new spot. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but the building pressure made my muscles tense on their own.

When his hand moved to the right side, pain shot through me like someone had taken a knife to the inside of my abdomen and twisted. I flinched, a sharp hiss escaping before I could stop it.

“That?” he asked immediately.

“Yeah.” I breathed out through my teeth. “Definitely that.”

He nodded, lips tightening. I watched his throat work as he swallowed. “Okay. I’m going to order bloodwork and an ultrasound. It could be a few things, nothing life threatening, but enough that we should check.”

The words “nothing life threatening” were supposed to be reassuring, but they echoed in my head in a way that made my fingers curl into the paper beneath me. I exhaled shakily. “Great.”

He peeled the gloves off with efficient little snaps and tossed them into the bin. Then he leaned back against the counter, the white coat pulling slightly across his shoulders. He crossed his arms, not in a defensive way, more like he was stopping himself from pacing.

“You shouldn’t have waited two days,” he said quietly.

I stared at my knees under the gown. My skin looked pale, washed out under the overhead light. “I thought it would go away.”

“You always think that.”

“That’s because sometimes it actually does.”

He gave me a look. A real one. Not a doctor look. Not a professional look.

The one he gave me at home when I did something stupid and he was trying very hard not to say I told you so.

The look stung more than the pressure in my stomach.

“Next time you feel something like this,” he said, “don’t wait.”

I shrugged lightly, the paper whispering under my shoulder blades. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

His eyes softened immediately, in that way he probably didn’t want them to.

“I’m going to worry no matter what,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room went quiet.

Not tense.

Just quiet.

The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the space between us. In the hallway outside, a cart rolled past, wheels squeaking over the linoleum. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.

He cleared his throat and picked up the chart again, shifting back into doctor mode like flipping a switch, his shoulders drawing back, his voice steadying. “I’ll put the orders in. It shouldn’t take long.”

He started toward the door but paused, his hand resting on the metal handle.

Then, without looking back, he asked, “Did you at least eat something today?”

I hesitated. Guilt flared again. “…Coffee.”

He sighed through his nose, a familiar, quiet sound of resigned frustration. “That doesn’t count.”

“I know.”

“Eat something after the tests.” His voice softened again, almost careful. “Please.”

He left.

The latch clicked behind him, and the room suddenly felt bigger and emptier. I stared at the sink in the corner, the box of gloves, the sharps container on the wall with its bright red label. My stomach throbbed in time with my pulse.

The ultrasound tech came and went, efficient and polite. She was middle-aged, with dark hair pulled into a low bun and tired eyes that still managed to be kind. She introduced herself, then got straight to work.

The gel was cold when she squeezed it onto my skin, a slick, icy puddle that made me tense up. The wand pressed firmly over the sensitive spot, the pressure making the pain spike again. The machine hummed and beeped quietly, the screen casting a bluish glow across the dimmed room. I watched the indistinct gray shapes flicker on the monitor and pretended they meant something to me.

She didn’t make small talk, which I appreciated. Her silence felt like a gift. Every now and then, she’d tell me to breathe or shift slightly, her voice calm and detached.

When she finished, she wiped the gel off my stomach with practiced, quick strokes of a paper towel. “Your doctor will review the scans and be back in a few minutes,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, but she was already halfway out the door.

The room felt too quiet after she left, the sudden absence of the machine’s hum making my ears ring. I sat there, the gown sticking faintly to the spots where the gel hadn’t been completely wiped away, the air feeling even colder on my damp skin.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Time stretched in a strange way inside hospital walls. My sense of it wobbled between I’ve been here forever and It’s only been a second. I twisted the necklace around my fingers without thinking, feeling the familiar shape of the small gold initial pressing into my skin. The chain slid over my knuckles, warm at first from my body heat, then cooler as I fidgeted with it.

The letter always felt comforting, a weight I chose. But right now it felt too heavy, like it announced something I wasn’t supposed to say out loud within these four walls.

The door opened again.

Rafe walked in holding a folder, his white coat moving around his knees. His gaze went straight to me, then dropped to my hands. The moment he saw me still fiddling with the necklace, his eyebrows pulled together slightly, a tiny crease forming between them.

“You alright?” he asked as he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Just bored,” I said, letting the necklace fall back against my collarbone. “And thinking.”

“That’s usually when you get yourself worked up.”

A huff of something close to a laugh slipped out. “You’re not wrong.”

He came closer, stopping beside the exam table. Not too close. There was still space, still a line between us, but it was close enough that I could smell his soap and the faint trace of coffee on his breath. Close enough that he felt like a person, not a doctor detached behind a desk.

“Your scans look okay,” he said, flipping open the folder. His eyes skimmed the papers in quick, practiced movements. “You’ve got a small ovarian cyst. They happen. It’s painful, but it should resolve on its own.”

Relief hit me so fast it was almost humiliating. My shoulders dropped. I hadn’t realized they’d been up around my ears.

“So I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” he confirmed. “You need rest. Hydration. Heat. Anti inflammatories.”

“No surgery?” I could hear the thin edge of fear that had been sitting there all morning.

“No surgery.” He met my eyes and held them, his expression steady, grounding. “You’re not dying.”

My throat tightened. I let out a breath I’d been holding since I’d Googled right lower abdominal pain at two in the morning. “That’s good.”

“You say that like it was a possibility.”

“Well, I Googled…”

He closed his eyes briefly, like he needed a second to gather himself. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.”

He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile. A real one, the kind that softened the lines around his mouth. Not the polite ones he gave everyone else in this building.

“You’re going to go home and rest,” he said.

“You’re prescribing rest?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very official.”

“I can write it on paper if you need proof.”

I snorted, the sound bursting out of me before I could stop it. The tension in my chest loosened a little. “I think I’ll trust your verbal orders.”

His eyes drifted to my necklace again, to the small gold letter resting against the thin fabric of the gown. He didn’t touch it, but he tilted his head slightly, a small smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you look good with that letter around your neck.”

I rolled my eyes, but I felt heat climb up my cheeks anyway, my skin going hot under the cold air. “It’s just a necklace.”

“Sure.” His smirk grew, just a little.

“Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied.”

“Did I?”

I shook my head, trying not to smile and failing just enough that he’d notice. “You’re impossible.”

“And you were supposed to take it off before coming here,” he added, his voice low.

I looked down at it, guilt twisting under my ribs. “I forgot.”

He hummed in that way he did when he was pretending not to care but absolutely cared. The sound was quiet and familiar, something I heard in the kitchen, on the couch, not usually in an exam room. Then his eyes flicked to my left hand again.

“To be fair,” he said lightly, “you forgot that too.”

I pulled my hand back instinctively, covering the ring with my fingers. “Habit.”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. The words came out faster, like he wanted to get them in before I could apologize. “Just… be careful, okay? People notice things.”

“I know.”

We went quiet again.

Not awkward.

Just full.

The air between us felt crowded with all the things we couldn’t say in here. My heart thudded a little harder, not from fear this time, but from the awareness of him, of us, of the way the fluorescent light picked up the faint shine on his ring.

He stepped closer and spoke softer than before, his voice almost intimate in the clinical room. “You scared me.”

I looked up, caught off guard by the rawness in his eyes. “Rafe…”

“I’m serious.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar, nervous gesture that made him seem younger, less invincible than he did in his white coat. “When I saw your name on the intake list this morning, I… well. I didn’t like it.”

My chest tightened, not in a painful, medical way, but in that too full way that made it hard to think. The idea of him seeing my name a few floors away, not knowing why I was here, made my stomach twist for a new reason.

“I’m okay,” I said, my voice softer than before.

“I know.” He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “I just… I wish you’d told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, accepting it like he always did when he’d decided to let something go. He offered a small, tired smile, the kind I only ever saw when it was just us and the day had been longer than either of us wanted to admit.

“You ready to go?” he asked gently.

“Can I?”

“Yes. I’m signing you out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not supposed to…”

He cut me off with a quiet snort. “Please. Half the doctors here sign out their own families.”

My heart stuttered at the word. I tried to cover it with a teasing tone. “Is that what I am?” I asked, testing him just a little, the question hanging there between us heavier than my voice made it sound.

His eyes flickered briefly to the ring on my hand again, then back to my face.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. Or maybe it was just him standing so close, the heat of his body cutting through the chill of the AC.

He helped me sit up, not dramatically, just steadying my elbow like someone who’d done it a hundred times before. His hand was firm and sure, his touch practical but somehow still careful. He handed me my jacket from the chair, holding it open just enough to make it easy for me to slip my arms in.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

He didn’t kiss me in the exam room. He didn’t hold my hand. He didn’t do anything that would break rules or cross lines or give anyone walking past a reason to look twice.

But as he walked beside me down the quiet hallway, the rhythmic squeak of my shoes on the linoleum the only sound, I caught the faint glint of his wedding band under the fluorescent lights when he adjusted his coat.

Show off

Toxic!RafeCameron

Rewrite of my old fic.

I’d been excited for this party for weeks.

Borderline giddy, honestly. I’d picked the dress days ago, laid it across my bed like something sacred, smoothing the fabric again and again until there wasn’t a single wrinkle left. I’d already pictured how the sequins would catch the light in somebody’s living room, how the skirt would move when I walked. I’d lined my eyeliner three times to get it right, wiped it off twice, curled my hair until my arms ached. The shoes were waiting by the door, heels a little too high, already threatening blisters I decided I didn’t care about.

I just wanted tonight to feel good. Simple. Easy. Like how normal couples laugh on the drive over, windows cracked, singing along off-key to some dumb pop song. Sneak kisses in the car before going in. Argue about stupid things like music choices and then laugh again. Complain about parking. Hold hands.

Except we weren’t a normal couple.

We were me trying, always trying, and him wrestling with whatever storm lived under his skin, the one that flared up every other day like clockwork and left me tiptoeing around the edges of it.

Still, I hoped. Hope was a habit I couldn’t kick.

I fastened my necklace, a thin gold chain that suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. My fingers trembled with that jittery pre-party excitement, part nerves, part caffeine, part desperate optimism. The perfume on my wrists smelled too sweet, heavy in the warm air of the bedroom. For a second, in the mirror, I almost believed I looked like the kind of girl who had a nice boyfriend and a nice night ahead of her.

Then I glanced over my shoulder, and the feeling died in my chest so fast it left me a little dizzy.

He was already holding a red cup. Half full. The cheap liquor in it was the color of bad decisions, sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he leaned against the doorway like he owned the whole room. Like he owned me.

He hadn’t even waited for us to leave the house.

The smell hit me first, sharp and bitter, cutting through my perfume and hairspray. My stomach dipped, a small, familiar drop, like missing a step on the stairs. My tongue went dry. The backs of my knees prickled with heat.

“Are you seriously not going to wait until we arrive?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, casual, as if maybe it could still be a joke.

He didn’t even pause. Didn’t even look at the cup like he was doing something questionable. Just lifted his eyes to mine, something cold and impatient flickering there, like I’d already ruined his night.

“Why do you care?” he said.

The tone cut sharper than the words. Flat. Bored. Like he was already tired of me. Like I was annoying him for daring to want anything from him at all.

Heat crawled up my neck. I swallowed, my throat tight. “Because maybe, just tonight, we could try to get there sober? Maybe actually enjoy it together? I don’t know, is that crazy?”

He scoffed, a humorless breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk that wasn’t really a smile. He took another drink, eyes still on me, like he wanted me to see him do it.

“You always make shit complicated,” he said.

My heart did this stupid hopeful lurch, then dropped again. I took a small step toward him, the floor cool under my bare feet, the hem of my dress brushing against my thighs. I lowered my voice like softness could fix it, like I could smooth over the jagged edge in him if I just stayed gentle enough.

“I’m not trying to,” I said. “I just… I wanted this to be good. For both of us.”

He stared at me with that look he got whenever he was slipping. Irritated, restless, coiled too tight, like there was something under his skin he was dying to tear out and I was the easiest target in reach.

“Yeah? Well, maybe stop telling me what to do,” he said.

He took another lazy sip while he said it, like I was background noise.

The words weren’t shouted. That somehow made it worse. Sharp, quiet, dismissive. A blade slipped between ribs while he pretended he hadn’t moved at all.

A familiar ache curled up in my chest, warm and awful, spreading out into my shoulders and down my arms. My fingers twitched with the urge to do something, anything. Touch his arm. Block the doorway. Grab the cup and pour it down the sink. Instead I just stood there, nails digging lightly into my palm, pressing half-moons into my skin.

“Rafe, I’m not telling you what to do,” I tried again, even though I was. Even though we both knew it. “I’m just asking. Just tonight. Can you try?”

He laughed, short and ugly. The sound bounced off the walls and made the small room feel even smaller.

“Jesus, here we go,” he muttered. “You hear yourself? ‘Can you try?’ Like I’m some fucking project you’re gonna fix.”

“That’s not what I said.” My voice came out too fast, too eager to untangle his anger. I hated how quickly I rushed to defend myself. My chest felt tight, like a band was pulling around it.

“It’s what you meant.” His eyes dragged over me, slow and assessing, not in a loving way. More like he was checking for flaws he could point out later. He tilted his head. “You look nice, by the way. For someone who never shuts up.”

The compliment and insult tangled together, confusing my brain the way it always did. For a heartbeat, the words you look nice floated up, offering me something warm, then crashed against never shuts up and dissolved.

“I just want us to have a good time,” I said quietly. “Together.”

“You think I’m not trying to have a good time?” His voice sharpened. He pushed off the doorframe, the cup tilting, a few drops spilling onto the hardwood. “Maybe I’d have a better time if you didn’t start nagging me the second I pick up a drink.”

“You picked it up before we even left the house,” I said. I heard the edge in my own voice and winced. His jaw ticked.

“So what?” He took a step closer, close enough that I could see the faint redness in his eyes, the way his pupils looked a little too blown already. “You gonna babysit me all night? Count how many sips I take?”

“No,” I said, even though I basically had planned to. “I just don’t want to spend the whole night worrying about which version of you I’m going to get.”

His eyebrows shot up. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Which version of me?” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words. “You really think you’re that important?”

“That’s not what I meant.” My pulse thudded in my ears now. My armpits felt damp under the smooth lining of the dress. The room seemed to tilt half an inch.

“You think everything’s about you,” he said, voice low and almost calm, which was worse than when he raised it. “You know that? I have one drink and suddenly you’re a victim. Poor you. Rafe’s ruining your night again.”

A sick, hollow feeling opened in my stomach. Part of me wanted to argue. Another part, the trained, exhausted part, started flipping through every conversation we’d ever had, searching for proof that maybe he was right. That maybe I was dramatic. Too sensitive. Too much.

“I didn’t say you’re ruining anything,” I whispered.

“You didn’t have to.” He took another sip, then licked a stray drop from his thumb, casual and deliberate. “Your face says it. That little disappointed look you get. Like I kicked a puppy or some shit.”

I blinked hard, my eyes stinging. I hated that he noticed that look. Hated that he knew exactly where to press.

“I’m just scared it’s gonna end the same way it always does,” I said, the words slipping out softer than I meant them to.

He snorted. “Here we go with ‘always.’ You love that word. ‘You always do this, Rafe.’ ‘You never listen, Rafe.’ You keep poking at me, and then when I finally say something back, you act like I hit you.”

My cheeks burned. I pressed my lips together so tightly they hurt.

“I’m not trying to fight,” I said.

“You already are.” His eyes narrowed a little, studying me like he was looking for a crack. “You know what? If you’re gonna be in that mood all night, maybe you shouldn’t come.”

The air left my lungs for a second. My hands went cold.

“What?” I asked, even though I’d heard him clearly.

He shrugged one shoulder, like it was nothing. “Stay home if you’re gonna kill the vibe. I’d rather go by myself than have you whining in my ear the whole time.”

Something in my chest twisted sharply, then tried to fold itself into something smaller, more acceptable.

“I spent all day getting ready,” I said, and my voice sounded thin to my own ears. Childish. “I thought we were going together.”

“Yeah, and then you started with your bullshit.” He took another drink, draining most of the cup now. “You don’t get to make me feel like crap and then cry when I don’t want to hang out with you.”

The worst part was, a small, poisoned part of me believed him. That maybe I was ruining it. That if I’d just kept my mouth shut when I saw the cup, we’d be halfway to the car by now, with him playing some too-loud playlist while I pretended not to mind.

Snappy. Moody. Then soft and sorry when the sun came up and he remembered he loved me, just not enough to stop the cycle.

A cycle I hated. A cycle I swore I’d leave someday.

But not tonight. Not yet.

So I forced my shoulders to relax. I smoothed my dress with shaky hands and tried to make my voice sound even.

“Fine,” I said. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”

He watched me for a long second, then smiled, almost charming again.

“See?” he said. “There you go. That’s better.”

He reached out and tapped my chin with his knuckles, like I was a kid who’d finally behaved. The touch made my skin crawl, but I stood still and let him do it. He finished the drink in two quick gulps, tossed the empty cup into the trash without looking, and grabbed his keys from the dresser.

“Come on,” he said, like nothing had happened. “We’re already late.”

I nodded and slipped my feet into the waiting heels. They pinched immediately. I told myself the tightness in my chest was just the dress.

I told myself it would be fine.

Hope was still a habit I couldn’t kick.

---

The music hit me first, loud enough to thrum through my chest and vibrate under my feet. The bass crawled up my legs, rattled my ribs, and made the air feel thick, like I was breathing through someone else’s smoke. Chlorine and cheap vodka clung to the night, mixing with the sharp bite of weed and the sweet, sticky scent of spilled something on the concrete.

People were everywhere, pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughing, shouting, diving into the pool hard enough to splash the concrete and soak the edges of my sandals. Someone cannonballed, a wave of cold water hitting my calves, and a girl shrieked, her drink sloshing over the rim of her cup and down her arm.

Normally, I loved this kind of chaos. I usually fed off it, let it swallow me up until there was no room to think about anything heavier than who was DJing next or whether my eyeliner was smudged. But tonight, it felt like the whole party existed on the edges of a storm cloud that clung to him, following every move he made. It was like the noise bent around Rafe, like even the music knew better than to get too close.

At first, he was… okay.

He wrapped his arm around my waist, his palm warm and heavy against the thin fabric of my dress, fingers digging in just enough to remind me he was there. He pressed a quick kiss to my temple, lips cool from his drink, then pulled back with that easy smile he wore like a mask. He nodded at people as they passed, greeted them like the world hadn’t already bent under the weight of whatever he carried inside. For a second, watching him, I almost let myself believe this could be a normal night. Almost.

Then I saw his eyes. The way they were already a little too bright, a little too empty. The way his smile never quite reached them.

He tipped his head back, draining what was left in his cup, the ice knocking against his teeth. I watched the way his throat worked, the slight tremor in his hand as he lowered the cup. He laughed at something Kelce said, a little too loud, a little too fast, like he was trying to outrun something only he could feel.

The more he drank, the more the edges of him frayed. His grip on his cup tightened until his knuckles turned white. His jaw set just a fraction too hard, the muscles there ticking every time someone brushed too close to me, every time another guy’s gaze even flicked in my direction. He took another shot, tequila burning down his throat, and his hand trembled ever so slightly. That was when I felt it, that familiar flutter of panic in my stomach, the one that started small and sharp and then spread, like ink in water.

You should say something, I told myself. Before it gets bad. Before he flips.

My fingers brushed along his elbow, skin hot from the humid night and the alcohol humming in his veins. “Rafe,” I murmured, leaning in so my lips almost grazed his arm, “don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough?”

His head snapped toward me so fast I flinched. Irritation sparked in his eyes, bright and sudden, like static right before a lightning strike. The air around us seemed to tighten.

“What?” he said, voice flat, like he was daring me to repeat myself.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I just mean… you’ve been drinking a lot. Maybe slow down a little.” I tried to keep my tone light, careful, like I was tiptoeing over glass.

His lip curled, that almost-smirk he got when he thought someone was being stupid. “For fuck’s sake, Y/N,” he muttered, snatching a blunt from Kelce with a motion sharp enough to make my fingers sting where they’d been resting against him. “Live a little.”

Kelce laughed, already high enough not to care. “Yeah, relax. It’s a party.”

My chest tightened, the air catching halfway to my lungs. There it was, the switch I’d learned to dread. The version of him that felt dangerous and untouchable, like he could tear something down just to prove he could.

“Oh,” I whispered, my voice shrinking without my permission. “Sorry.” The word tasted sour. I hated how quickly it came out of me.

He exhaled sharply, like I’d just made breathing harder for him. His eyes slid away from me, over the crowd, over the flashing lights reflecting in the pool, like he was already bored with my concern. My stomach sank, heavy and cold.

Then, almost too quickly, his finger hooked under my chin. His touch was sudden, a little rough, his thumb pressing against the soft part of my jaw as he tilted my face up to his. The irritation bled from his expression in an instant, his eyes softening, the storm pulling back just enough to reveal a lazy, familiar heat.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into that low, smooth tone that always made my chest ache. “C’mon, angel. Didn’t mean to snap.”

His breath smelled like whiskey and weed, warm and bitter. He smiled, softer now, the edges of it curved just right, like he knew exactly what buttons to press to make me stay.

And just like that, he kissed me. His mouth was warm and gentle, coaxing, his fingers splaying across my lower back to pull me closer. His lips moved slow, like we were alone, like there hadn’t been anger crackling through the air seconds before. The kiss felt safe, but my body didn’t believe it.

I froze against him. My hands pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palms, too fast, too strong. My own chest tightened in ways I couldn’t name, panic and longing crashing into each other until I couldn’t tell which was which.

That whiplash, the way he went from sharp edges to soft touches, from venom to sweetness in a breath, was the worst part. It made me feel dizzy, off-balance, like the floor might give out underneath me at any second.

Because I never knew which Rafe I’d get. And no matter how much I loved the soft version, the one who kissed my forehead and called me angel, I knew the storm was never far behind. It didn’t matter how sweet he sounded. It was always chased by something darker.

The second Topper approached, Rafe's spine straightened, shoulders rolling back as if he needed to take up more space. His chin lifted a fraction, his expression tightening into something smug and cold. He puffed up instantly, like he had something to prove just by existing.

His presence seemed to push the air around him into sharper angles, a warning sign only I seemed to notice. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

Topper laughed at something Kelce said, this loud, careless sound that cut right through the music and made me grit my teeth. It was the kind of laugh that said nothing in the world could touch them, that consequences were for other people.

“Bro, you’re gone,” Kelce snorted, clapping Rafe on the back hard enough to jostle me. “You’re not even pacing yourself.”

Rafe smirked, dragging from the blunt now dangling between his fingers. His arm slung around me again, heavier this time, almost possessive. I felt the weight of his gaze dragging down my body, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch for an audience.

“Look how short your dress is, angel,” he said loudly, voice rough and edged with something cruel. His eyes scanned my legs, pupils blown and bloodshot. “Trying to get someone’s attention tonight?”

Heat surged to my cheeks so fast it made me dizzy. Every pair of eyes nearby suddenly felt like they were pinned on me. My skin burned under the weight of his words, like he’d stripped me bare in front of everyone.

My fingers twisted at the hem of my dress, tugging it down even though there wasn’t much to pull. I tried to shrink into myself, to fold up and disappear into the floor. “It’s not that short,” I muttered, the words barely audible over the music. I hated how weak I sounded, how small.

“It’s a little short,” Topper added, smirking, his gaze sliding down my legs like he had the right. He took a drink, clearly enjoying the tension.

Kelce snickered. “Rafe’s gonna end up killing someone tonight if they look at her wrong.” He said it like a joke, but there was a flicker of truth in his eyes that made my stomach flip.

“Shut up,” Sarah snapped, appearing at my other side, smacking Topper’s arm hard enough to make him swear. Her eyes flicked to me, then to Rafe, worry creasing her brow. “You’re being weird.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to look up at Rafe. My heart thudded against my ribs, hard and uneven. “It’s not funny, Rafe,” I said, trying to sound firm, even though my voice wobbled. “Stop.”

He only chuckled, a low, careless sound that scraped along my nerves. It was that laugh he saved for moments when he didn’t care what I felt, when he knew he could pull me under and I’d still come crawling back.

“Relax,” he muttered, leaning closer, his lips brushing my ear. His breath was hot and smelled like smoke and liquor. “Didn’t think you’d get all sensitive.”

It wasn’t an apology. Not really. Just a shrug made of words, a casual flick of his tongue that dismissed everything churning inside me. My throat burned. I stared straight ahead, watching the pool lights ripple across the water, trying to steady my breathing.

“You know I’m just messing with you,” he added, a little softer but not kinder. His hand slid lower on my waist, fingers digging into the skin there. “You’re mine. That’s obvious enough, isn’t it?”

The way he said mine made something in my chest twist. Part of me wanted to lean into it, to let it mean safety and belonging. The other part wanted to tear his hand off me and run.

Sarah’s gaze lingered on me, eyes asking if I was okay even though she didn’t say the words out loud. I gave her the smallest nod, the kind that didn’t mean yes so much as I’ll survive.

Rafe turned back to his friends, already laughing at something else, his attention sliding away from me like I’d never been the center of it. The ache he left behind sat heavy in my chest, a knot I knew I’d be untangling alone later.

That was always the worst part.

The way he could make a careless comment, toss it out like it weighed nothing, then smile, take another hit, and move on. He’d leave me standing there, hands shaking, heart pounding, untangling the damage in the dark corner of my mind while he acted like nothing had happened.

Because it wasn’t nothing to me. It never was. And somehow, no matter how many times he did it, I still found myself hoping that next time, the storm might pass me by.

---

I stood there, watching the man I loved dissolve into someone I barely recognized.

He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t seeing me. He was chasing a high, a laugh, a rush of attention, completely blind to what it cost us, what it cost me.

The bass from the speakers thudded through the floor and crawled up my legs, vibrating in my ribs. The air in the house was thick with sweat, cheap cologne, and spilled liquor. Someone’s sharp laugh cut through the music, and Rafe’s laugh followed, louder, harder, almost manic.

“Rafe,” I tried again, tugging gently at his arm. My fingers lingered on his forearm, feeling the tense coil of muscle underneath his skin. He was warm and damp, and my hand felt suddenly small on him. “Please… just stop for a second.”

He jerked away like I’d burned him, my hand slipping from his arm and hanging uselessly at my side. The loss of contact made my stomach drop, like I’d missed a step on a staircase.

“Y/N, I’m fine,” he snapped, lifting his cup and taking a long, messy swig. Liquor sloshed over the rim and dripped down his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch. His eyes were too bright, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. “It’s just fun. Loosen up.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, trying to keep my voice steady even as heat crawled up my neck. “I… I don’t think it’s fun. You’re being a dick.” My voice came out smaller than I wanted, but the word hung heavy between us.

His eyes widened for a second, like I’d said something unforgivable, like I’d crossed some invisible line he’d never told me about. Then instead of softening, he hardened. His jaw clenched, the corners of his mouth tightened, the warmth I craved evaporated, replaced with something cold and sharp.

“You’re so dramatic,” he said, shaking his head with a humorless scoff. “Every time. You always gotta make it about you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I said, but it already felt useless. I could hear my own voice getting thin, frayed at the edges. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

He rolled his eyes like a bored teenager. “You’re always trying to talk. You nag, you whine, you cry. For what? I’m just having a good time.”

He turned his head as a girl passed by and touched his shoulder, giggling. He leaned into her, that easy, reckless charm slipping right into place, like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of everyone.

“Then stop complaining,” he muttered, already half turned away, his attention snapping back to the group beside him. He laughed at something some guy said and the sound of it sliced right through me. He didn’t even bother lowering his voice. “God, you’re exhausting, you know that?”

A few people glanced at me, then quickly looked away, pretending they hadn’t heard. The music suddenly felt too loud, the lights too bright. I could feel heat burning behind my eyes.

That was it. The breaking point. That cold, dismissive shrug that said I didn’t matter.

My throat closed up, tears stinging the back of my eyes, and the room blurred around the edges. My chest felt tight, too small for my own lungs. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, willing the tears not to fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Not while he was doing this thing he always did, pretending I was overreacting, pretending I was crazy.

He glanced back at me with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You gonna cry now?” he asked, voice low but dripping with mock concern. “Is this where you storm out and make a scene?”

I flinched. “I’m not making a scene.”

“You are,” he said simply, like it was a fact. “You always do. You love this. You love playing the victim.” He took another swig and looked right through me. “If you’re gonna pout, go do it somewhere else. You’re killing the vibe.”

A sick, cold feeling settled low in my stomach. I hated that a part of me still wanted to reach for him, still wanted him to soften and say he didn’t mean it, that he was just drunk, just stressed, just anything other than what he was actually being.

But he didn’t soften. He never did.

So I left.

Quietly.

Without another word, I turned away. My legs felt stiff and shaky, like they didn’t quite belong to me. I moved through the crowd, brushing against shoulders and dodging elbows, the smell of alcohol and perfume clinging to my clothes. No one stopped me. No one asked if I was okay.

The music dulled the farther I got from him, turning from a pounding in my chest to a distant, muffled thrum. I pushed open the front door and the hinge squeaked in protest. Cool night air rushed over my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. It smelled like wet grass and cigarette smoke and freedom that didn’t feel like freedom yet.

Behind me, the echo of his careless laughter followed, spilling out of the doorway and into the dark. It trailed after me like a shadow, like a bruise I couldn’t see yet but already felt forming. Every step down the front path felt heavier than the last, dragging me farther from him and closer to the part of me I’d been ignoring for too long, the part that kept whispering that this wasn’t love.

I didn’t look back. Because I knew he wouldn’t notice. Because he never really did. Because if I turned around and saw him not looking for me, I knew it would break something in me that I wouldn’t be able to fix.

So I kept walking, my eyes burning, my hands shaking, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to get out.

And he stayed behind, laughing like I’d never been there at all.

---

He called three times before I finally answered.

Three vibrating buzzes lit up my screen, rattling on the nightstand while I stared at his name. My heart pounded against my ribs, too loud in the small, dark room, and my stomach twisted like I was bracing for impact.

On the first call, I just watched it ring out. On the second, I turned the phone face down, like that could make him disappear. By the third, my hand was already shaking as I picked it up.

When I finally answered, my voice barely existed. It scraped out of my throat, dry and thin. “What do you want?”

His exhale shuddered through the speaker, uneven and shaky, like he was trying to breathe through panic. I could almost picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, pacing, jaw clenched, pupils blown the way they always were after a long night of drinking.

“Y/N… angel, I messed up. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t respond.

Partly because I didn’t trust my voice. Partly because I was afraid that if I let a single word out, everything I’d been holding back would crack open and spill all over him. Partly because I didn’t know if I even wanted to hear whatever version of him was calling now: drunk, guilty, lonely, or all three.

He filled the silence anyway. He always did.

“I didn’t mean to get so drunk.”

I let out a bitter, humorless breath and sat up, my back pressing against the cold headboard. My free hand fisted the sheet, nails digging into the fabric.

“That’s not an excuse,” I snapped, heat creeping into my tone before I could calm it down. “You embarrassed me. You made fun of me. You ignored me. You pushed me away like I didn’t matter.”

A beat of silence.

Then a broken whisper. “I know.”

Another inhale, rough and shaky. I heard something in the background, like glass clinking or a door slamming. It sent a ripple of dread down my spine.

“And I fucking hate myself for it. You know I do.”

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, stripped bare in a way he’d never let anyone else hear. It was the version of him only I ever saw, the one hidden under the bravado and anger, buried beneath the smirk he wore like armor.

I knew this part. The script never changed. He hurt me. He spiraled. He called. I picked up.

“You know I love you,” he whispered, his voice shaking like the words cost him something. “You know that, right? Tell me you know that.”

My throat tightened. My chest ached, heavy and sore. I swallowed, feeling every fragile piece of me turn over at the sound of his voice.

God. I wanted believing that to be enough. I wanted it to fix the ache in my chest, to make last night disappear. I wanted love to erase the bruises his words left, to wipe away the way he’d laughed at me in front of everyone, like I was just another joke.

But wanting wasn’t the same as healing.

“I’m still upset,” I said quietly, the truth heavy on my tongue. My voice shook, but I forced the words out anyway. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He scoffed, breath rough against the mic. “Doing what? I had a bad night, alright? Everyone gets too drunk sometimes.”

Anger flared under my skin. “You didn’t just get drunk. You tore me down in front of your friends. You called me pathetic because I wanted to leave. You grabbed my wrist so hard it still hurts.”

I glanced at the faint red marks circling my skin, the memory of his fingers tight and unyielding. Shame burned in my chest, hot and sharp.

“I was joking,” he said, quick and defensive. “You’re too sensitive, you always are. I didn’t grab you that hard.”

I closed my eyes, fighting the sting behind them. He always did this too. Twist it. Minimize it. Make me question what I knew I felt.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I repeated, more to myself than to him.

“I’ll fix it,” he said instantly, the words tumbling out too fast, too eager, like he’d been waiting for the right line. “I’ll be better. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

His voice trembled on the last word, like he was terrified this was the moment everything would fall apart. I heard him suck in a breath, like he was swallowing back something darker. A crash sounded faintly on his end, something hitting a wall. My pulse spiked.

“Rafe, what was that?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, then softened his tone so abruptly it made my skin prickle. “Nothing, angel. Just… dropped something. Don’t start, alright? Please.”

The please came out thin and sharp, like a threat dressed up as a favor.

My heart, stupid and hopeful and bruised, softened around the edges anyway. It always did. That was the worst part. I hated that he knew it.

“I forgive you,” I murmured, closing my eyes as the words left my mouth. My shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out and leaving a dull ache behind. “But we need to talk, Rafe. We need to actually change. Not just say we will.”

“Okay,” he breathed, relief washing through every syllable so hard it almost sounded like a laugh. “Okay. Whatever you want, angel. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“You say that every time,” I said quietly. “And then it happens again.”

There was a pause. I could almost feel his temper coil through the line, electric and dangerous.

“So what?” he said, his tone tightening. “You want me to grovel more? You want me to cry? Is that what you want?”

His words cut, sharp and mean, but underneath them, I heard it again. Fear. Panic. Obsession.

“No,” I whispered. “I want you to stop hurting me.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, like I’d hit something he didn’t want touched.

“I’m not letting you go,” he said, voice dropping, quiet and too calm. “I don’t care how mad you are. You’re mine. You hear me?”

A chill slid down my spine. I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles ached.

“Rafe…”

He shifted suddenly, the edge smoothing out of his voice, like he’d flipped a switch. “I’ll be good. I promise. You’ll see. Just give me one more chance, angel. One more. I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll make you forget all of this.”

His promises wrapped around me like smoke, sweet and suffocating.

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe him. I let myself imagine a version of him that didn’t hurt me. A version of us that didn’t feel like walking through a minefield.

I knew better.

But knowing and leaving were two very different things.

Overthinking it

Toxic!Rafe Cameron

The sun slanted through the blinds, painting stripes of pale gold across the room, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it really was. It turned the dust into glitter, slow and lazy in the air, drifting in little spirals that caught in the light before disappearing. The air smelled faintly like detergent and Rafe’s cologne, that sharp, expensive scent that always clung to my clothes after I left. My skin still felt warm from the shower, my hair damp against the back of my neck, and every small comfort in the room only made the tension in him feel louder.

Dust drifted lazily in the air, slow and unbothered, so starkly opposite to the tension twisting through Rafe that it almost felt cruel. His agitation buzzed like static. I could feel it in the bed frame, in the way the mattress dipped every time he turned, in the tight pull in my own shoulders that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him.

His phone lay facedown on the bed beside me, screen still glowing with whatever message had set him off, the bright edge of the notification peeking out from under the black case. I could see his name at the top of the thread, the little preview of words I wasn’t trying to read, but they were there anyway, humming like a live wire. My fingers tingled with the urge to flip the phone over, to know, to prepare, but I didn’t move. I’d learned the hard way that curiosity around Rafe could be dangerous.

My eyes weren’t on the screen. They were on him, pacing the length of the room in tight, agitated strides, restless and caged in his own skin, wound so tightly I could almost hear it humming in the floorboards. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, his hands flexing and fisting at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them if they weren’t holding something. Or someone.

I pulled my legs up, tucking them close to my chest, my heels digging into the duvet as if I could anchor myself that way. The cotton felt soft and cool against my shins. I curled in on myself, trying to make myself smaller so maybe he’d calm down quicker, like shrinking would give him less to aim the storm at. Watching Rafe spiral always made something in my chest tighten. Worry, frustration, fear, and this strange, unwanted ache that felt too much like love for comfort.

His movements were sharp and almost frantic, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts and losing. He kept raking his fingers through his hair, leaving it pushed back and wild, his T-shirt hanging crooked on his frame where he’d yanked at the hem.

“Okay, you’re seriously tellin’ me you didn’t see him lookin’ at you like that?” he snapped, dragging both hands down his face hard enough that his cheeks went briefly red. His voice hit the room like a slap, too loud for the small space, bouncing off the walls and sinking into my skin. Underneath the bite I could hear it though, that wobble he’d rather die than admit. The fear. The insecurity. The ugly, raw part of him that always showed up as anger.

My heart gave a stupid little jump at the volume, like it hadn’t heard him yell a hundred times before. Heat climbed up the back of my neck. I blinked at him, incredulous, a humorless laugh caught in my throat, stuck behind the lump of anxiety that always showed up when he got like this.

“Rafe… the guy was the cashier. He asked if I wanted a bag.” My voice sounded smaller than I meant it to, too soft in comparison to his.

His head snapped toward me so fast I heard the faint crack of his neck. His eyes narrowed, hard and bright, that icy blue going even colder, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle in his cheek twitching. He looked me over like I was something he owned, checking for damage, for betrayal.

“Yeah. Exactly.” His lip curled, like I’d confirmed something for him. “And he asked it like he knew you. Like he was tryin’ somethin’. People do that. They do that with you.”

He spat the words like they tasted bad. I shifted my weight, a prickle of irritation sparking under my skin, tangled with the kind of tired that went bone-deep. I wanted to roll my eyes, wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous, paranoid, insane. But moments like this, when he was frantic and overwhelmed, felt fragile. Like one wrong move and he’d shatter, and I’d be the one standing barefoot in the glass.

“You’re hearing yourself, right?” I asked quietly. “He rang up gum and a water, Rafe. He’s not in love with me.”

He laughed once, short and humorless, pacing again. “You don’t get it. You never fuckin’ get it.” His fingers scraped over his scalp, then he knocked his knuckles against his forehead, a sharp little tap like he was trying to knock sense into himself or knock something loose. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you? At the club, at the gas station, at the damn grocery store?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Part of me wanted to argue, to tell him he was imagining it, but another part of me remembered the way the cashier’s eyes had lingered a half-second too long when he handed me the receipt. The way strangers’ gazes always seemed to stick when I was with Rafe, the way I never knew if it was because of me or because of him.

Two strides and he was in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him. He loomed, the shadow of his body blocking the stripes of light across the bed, but he didn’t feel dangerous. Not to me. Never to me, even when I knew better. Even when there was a part of my brain that whispered I should be more afraid.

His posture was all squared shoulders and storm clouds, fists still half-curled at his sides, but when he touched me, everything in him softened. His fingers threaded through my hair, slow and careful, grazing my scalp with a tenderness that made my chest ache. It almost felt like an apology he didn’t know how to say. It hit me then how often he did that, how often he used gentleness like a bandage over something he’d just ripped open.

“Look, I’m not pissed at you, alright?” he said, his voice dropping, warming, going quiet in that way that always made me lean in. There was a raw edge under it, something vulnerable and jagged. “Can’t blame ‘em. You look good today.”

A smirk tugged at his lips like it had been rehearsed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was still frantic, still searching, like he was looking for proof I wasn’t about to vanish.

I arched a brow, because it was easier than admitting my stomach fluttered at the compliment when he was like this. “You’re jealous.”

“Okay. I’m not jealous.” He pulled his hand out of my hair, exhaling through his nose, like the word itself offended him. He paced one short line in front of the bed, then sat down heavily beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. He paused, searching for a word big enough to hold all his emotions and not finding it. “I’m… aware. There’s a difference.”

“Awareness doesn’t usually come with yelling,” I said, my tone light, but there was a tremor under it I hoped he didn’t hear.

He ignored that. He leaned back on his palms, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him instructions on how to be okay. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d run a mile, not argued about a stranger. The room hummed with the thud of his heartbeat, or maybe it was mine.

“Been with you a year and I still feel like… any guy in this damn town would jump if you gave ‘em a chance,” he muttered, the words slurring together like he didn’t want to fully commit to saying them. His voice had dropped so low it almost blurred into the quiet of the room, like he didn’t want me to hear and also desperately needed me to.

Something in my chest squeezed tight. Because he said it like it was a fact, like something he’d already accepted about the world. Everyone else was a threat. Everyone else was an option. He was the one waiting for the inevitable moment I realized I could do better.

“Rafe,” I started, but he cut across me, voice sharper again.

“And don’t do that thing where you laugh it off,” he warned, turning his head to look at me, his eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide. “Don’t fuckin’ gaslight me and act like I’m crazy. I see it. I see the way they look at you. I’m not stupid.”

Guilt stung, even though I hadn’t done anything. Or maybe I had, by existing, by being visible, by not shrinking myself enough to make him feel safe. I shifted closer anyway, my knee brushing his thigh. The contact grounded me, and then I focused on grounding him.

“But I’m with you, Rafe,” I said, steadying my voice. “You know that.” I let the truth of it sit between us. I’d chosen him and kept choosing him, even when it felt a little like choosing the edge of a cliff.

He tilted his head toward me, studying my face with that look he only ever gave me when he was scared. Like he was reading between the lines of my skin, searching for the lie he was sure would show up eventually. His gaze flicked from my eyes to my mouth, to the way my hands twisted in the blanket, then back.

Slowly, he reached for me, pulling my legs into his lap like he was claiming them, arranging them there gently but firmly. His fingers wrapped around my calf, his thumb pressing into the muscle just a little too hard, like he needed to feel that I was solid and real. He held on like my legs were something fragile and precious he was afraid he might drop, or break.

“Say it again,” he whispered. Not demanding this time, not quite. It wasn’t the sharp edge of control. It was something softer and worse. Just desperate.

Those blue eyes burned into me, and suddenly I wasn’t annoyed anymore. The anger, the eye roll sitting on the tip of my tongue, all of it dissolved under the weight of how small he sounded. I was just soft. For him. Always for him, no matter how many times I told myself I shouldn’t be.

“I’m with you,” I repeated, steady and sure, even if a tiny part of me wondered how long I could keep saying it.

He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath since the store, maybe longer. He nodded, once, twice, like he needed the words to sink deep enough to touch whatever raw nerve had been buzzing under his skin. “Okay. Good. Yeah.” His grip on my leg loosened a fraction, enough for the pressure to ease, his thumb shifting to a slow stroke over my ankle.

Silence settled over us then. Not empty, not uncomfortable, just thick. Heavy and warm, humming with everything he didn’t know how to say out loud. The air felt denser somehow, like we were underwater. His thumb traced circles on my skin, absent and automatic, like he needed the contact to keep himself from spinning out again.

I watched his profile in the sideways light. The tense line of his mouth, the little furrow between his brows that never seemed to go away anymore. He wasn’t pacing, but I could feel the restlessness still humming under his skin, like an engine idling too high.

“You know what scares me?” he asked suddenly, his voice so low I almost thought I imagined it.

My heart stuttered. “What?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. His eyes stayed fixed on my legs in his lap, on where his hands were wrapped around me. “It’d be so easy for you to leave. You could walk out that door right now and there’d be ten guys ready to make you forget I exist.” His jaw clenched again, knuckles whitening where he held me. “And I can’t… I can’t fuckin’ handle that. I’d lose my mind.”

A chill slid down my spine at the way he said it, not like a fear, but a promise. Like if I ever did leave, he’d follow the crack it made in him all the way to the end, no matter who got hurt on the way.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” I said automatically, because that was what I was supposed to say. The words tasted like habit on my tongue.

He finally looked at me again, and there was something wild in his eyes now, something bright and unsteady. It made my stomach swoop. “You say that like you can guarantee it,” he murmured. “Like you can control what happens. People change. They get bored. They… they decide I’m too much.”

You are too much, a small, honest voice whispered in the back of my skull. But I swallowed it down.

I shifted my foot, my toes brushing against his ribs. He caught my ankle, his fingers tightening again, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me how easily he could.

“Rafe,” I said softly, “I’m here. I’m with you. I chose you. I keep choosing you.” I paused, my chest feeling impossibly tight. “You don’t have to freak out every time someone looks at me.”

He let out a humorless breath. “You think I like this? You think I wanna be the psycho boyfriend who loses it over a cashier?” His mouth twisted. “I know how it sounds. I just… I know what people are capable of. I know what I’m capable of.”

The words landed heavy. There was a threat in them, but it wasn’t pointed at me, not directly. It was just there, in the room with us, sitting quietly in the corner like it was waiting.

My chest ached, not just from him, but from me too, from the way I was sitting here letting him wrap himself around me like chains I kept telling myself were a blanket.

And suddenly it hit me, clearer than the sunlight striping the room. Rafe Cameron wasn’t just jealous. He was terrified in a way that made him dangerous. Terrified of being replaced, of losing control, of losing me, the one thing he hadn’t already broken or been broken by. Terrified enough that he’d twist anything, anyone, to keep that from happening.

So I stayed. Not because he asked this time, not because he needed me to, even though he did. I stayed because in that moment, with his hands warm and unsteady on my skin and all that fear crackling under the surface, I wanted to. Or maybe I didn’t know how not to.